


The Sensation of Falling

by Reinamy



Series: Vertigo [1]
Category: Hey Arnold!
Genre: Drama, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Families of Choice, Fluff and Angst, High School, Post-Canon, Romance, Secret Admirer, not movie compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-26
Packaged: 2018-06-09 07:47:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6896269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reinamy/pseuds/Reinamy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Helga G. Pataki has a secret admirer. Hell must have frozen over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Note

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this pairing? Totally owns my heart. ♥

 

> _Though it's never aimed my way, I think you have a pretty smile._

 

That is the note Helga G. Pataki finds when she opens her locker on Monday morning; the neat, cursive script bold against the sticky note someone had obviously pushed between the slit.

She stares at it for a long moment, fingers tracing the delicate curlicues, before scoffing and stuffing it into her pocket. Either someone slipped it into the wrong locker or it's a prank.

Helga doesn't doubt that it isn't intended for her, which is why she trashes it at the earliest opportunity.

And if she feels a pang of disappointment when she opens her locker the next morning to find it empty, _well._ No one has to know but her. 

 

♦ ♦ ♦

 

There is another cream-colored square of paper lying on her books when Helga opens her locker on Wednesday. She doesn't know how long she stands there, eyeing the note like it's a snake poised to strike. A slam of metal startles her to attention and she glares balefully at the guy two lockers down. He sees her, yelps an apology, and all but runs away without a backwards glance, the locker he hasn't bothered to properly close swinging behind him.

Helga snorts derisively and returns her attention to the post-it.

Pursing her lips, she reaches forward and unfolds it. In a familiar handwriting are the words: 

  

> _Yesterday I was watching the sun set. The color of the sky as it darkened reminded me of your eyes, except for when you're smiling, and then they become as blue as the ocean at midday. I'm not sure which I like more—your smile or your eyes. I feel like I can get lost in both._

 

Note impossibly heavy in her hand, Helga swivels her head side to side. The hallway is bustling with people but no one is looking in her direction. She frowns and drags her gaze to the message, re-reads it twice more, then carefully tucks it into a dog-eared copy of _The Woman in White_ that she's reading for leisure.

As she pulls out her Economics textbook and shuts the door, she tells herself that it's likely a stupid prank and the only reason she's keeping the note is because it's evidence. When she finds the person who's yanking her chain, she's going to make them _pay._

She spends the rest of the day forcing her thoughts away from the sticky in her locker.

She isn't very successful.

 

♦ ♦ ♦

 

Helga doesn't find another note waiting for her the next day, or the next, and is relieved that she never told Phoebe about them. She figures that it was a prank and the culprit got bored by her refusal to react. That, or they really were slipping the note into the wrong locker and finally figured it out.

It's fine. She isn't _disappointed_ or anything. She's known from the beginning that they aren't for her.

She tries not to think about how bothered she feels when she arrives at Phoebe's apartment on Saturday night for their bi-monthly sleepover. And when Phoebe asks her what's put her in such a prissy mood when they're curled up together on the couch watching re-runs of Grey's Anatomy, she shrugs and doesn't answer.

It's not like she has any concrete ones to give.

 

♦ ♦ ♦

 

She will refuse to admit 'til the day she dies that her heart quickens when she opens her locker on Monday morning to find a familiar note. Her hands tremble a little when she reaches for it, and she glances around her to make sure no one's hovering over her shoulder before unfolding it. 

 

> _I saw you at the mall on Sunday. You didn't see me, which is probably a good thing because you were wearing your hair down and I must have looked like an idiot, staring. I'd love to see you wear it like that more often, but I think I'd miss the curls at your nape when you pull it up into a ponytail. Sometimes it's all I can do not to twirl it around my finger and see if it feels as soft as it looks._

 

Unconsciously, Helga brings her hand up to touch the nape of her neck. She feels a loose curl resting against her skin and shivers at the thought of warm hands trailing up her neck to play with her hair. And then she catches herself and scowls.

It's a prank, she tells herself, even as she reads the words again, the pads of her fingertips tracing the grooves of the ink. She looks around and is unsurprised to find no one staring ostentatiously at her; it's a prank, so of course they won't want to get caught.

_But what if—_

No. Helga shakes her heads and exhales sharply. It's a prank. A joke. It _has_ to be. There's no way anyone would think such things about her—not Helga G. Pataki, whose resting face, according to Phoebe, is that of a serial killer; whose sister bemoans her fashion sense (or lack thereof) and often complains that she's so _plain_ and never does anything about it; who gets called "ice bitch" behind her back because no one's brave enough to say it to her face, and doesn't even _care_ because that's who she is and she's fine with that.

She's never done anything to warrant the kind of affection the writer apparently feels towards her. Never. She can count on one hand the number of people she's actually nice to and still have fingers left over.

There's no way she has a—a _secret admirer._ No freaking way. Not her.

 

♦ ♦ ♦

 

"You've been awfully… _disgruntled_ lately," Phoebe says as she sits across from her at their usual lunch table. Wednesday's mystery meat ripples suspiciously as she sets her tray down, and Helga eyes it before glancing up at her best friend. She will never understand how Phoebe can actually _like_ the cafeteria food. Helga would rather go hungry than brave their heavily processed glop. She heard someone refer to it as _human feed_ once. They aren't wrong. "What's wrong, Helga?"

"Nothing's wrong," Helga mutters, returning her attention to her sandwich. She takes a huge bite, ignoring Phoebe's disbelieving stare.

"You slammed Trevor into the locker for bumping into you this morning," Phoebe says pointedly. " _Three times."_

Helga flushes a little at the memory. She opened her locker that morning to find it empty and… _well_. Of course, that's when Trevor had come along and bumped into her so hard she hit her head against the locker frame. It had _hurt,_ dammit, and that's the only reason she reacted as she had. It had nothing to do with the fact that her locker was bereft of a note even though it's _Wednesday,_ oh no.

Sometime in between the second and third slam she had caught sight of a familiar cream color at the corner of her eye and had unceremoniously dropped Trevor to the floor. There, wedged between her gym bag and calculus textbook, was the note. Whoever slipped it inside must have done so at the corner of the door slit, she'd reasoned as she carefully retrieved it, paying little heed to Trevor who was trying to make an escape.

The note, terribly crinkled from being folded and unfolded so many times, now sits in her pocket, impossibly warm against her thigh. All day she's been slipping her hand inside to touch it, then snatching it away when she realizes what she's doing. Even now her fingers twitch with the urge to pull it out, smooth out the creases, and go over the words she's read so many times they've been branded to memory.

  

> _Whatever room I'm in seems to get so much brighter the moment you walk into it. When I see you, no matter how awful my day has been, I feel a little bit better. You're like the first ray of sunshine after a week of stormy skies._

 

Helga is trying very, very hard not to be affected by the sickeningly sweet messages she's been receiving every Monday, Wednesday, and sometimes Friday, for the past three weeks now. The voice in her head that insists it's one terrible joke is losing volume by the day, growing quieter. It's stupid, _so stupid,_ but Helga's becoming unconvinced that it's just a prank. Would someone really go to all this trouble just to wind her up? And for what purpose? In the hopes that she'll fall in _love_ with someone whose only real interaction with her is through a few pretty words, and then what? Embarrass her? Break her heart? As if.

She won't deny that she's flattered—who wouldn't be?—but she's certainly not becoming _infatuated_ with some _stranger_ who probably ripped everything off from some trashy harlequin novel with a semi-pornographic front cover.

Helga grew up. She's no longer that starry-eyed little girl who used to write shitty poetry and dream of being swept off her feet and saved from her negligent family. She has more common sense than to believe someone will fall in love with her the way they do in romance novels. She's smartened up to the reality that true love is an idealistic concept only believed in by people who spend more time in the clouds than on earth.

If Helga is lucky she might eventually find some guy who won't be too intimidated by her abrasive personality, get married for the tax benefits, and have the obligated kid she can toss off to a nanny while she furthers her career and pretends she and her husband aren't having affairs on the side.

If she's unlucky…she'll end up like her mother, trying to forget about all her poor life choices and the fact that she's trapped in a borderline-abusive marriage with an unending supply of "smoothies."

Or her sister, who goes through men like she goes through shoes, always seeking something that likely doesn't exist outside of fairytales.

Romance isn't in Helga's cards. Considering all the _stellar_ examples of relationships she's witnessed over the years, she's not even sure she wants it to be.

Without thinking she rests her palm against the pocket concealing the note and pats it like it has some miraculous heartening power. When she realizes what she's doing, _again,_ she clenches her hand into a fist and bites the inside of her cheek.

"—lga? Helga?" Phoebe's voice pulls her from her reverie and she looks up, realizing that her friend must have been calling her for a while.

Shaking her head to clear it, she says, "Huh? Oh, sorry, Phoebs. I got sidetracked. What were you saying?"

Helga resists the urge to shift under the narrowed look the other girl gives her.

"You know you can talk to me about anything, right?" she insists, eyebrows furrowed in worry.

Helga feels awful for lying to her about this. Phoebe is more of a sister to her than her own sister is (not that that's saying much) and she's always had Helga's back. It feels wrong to withhold details of her life from her, especially since the secret she's currently keeping is _nothing_ compared to others Helga has shared. But every time Helga even _thinks_ about telling her, about showing her the letters, a heavy lump forms in her throat which the words eventually get caught in.

It's too… _private_ , somehow, and the thought of anyone else reading them makes her feel like she's letting them read her _own_ journal. Only worse.

There's also the fact that Phoebe knows her too well, sometimes better than she knows herself. She'll see something in Helga's expression, read something in her words, that Helga isn't ready to acknowledge. More, she'll know just how _not indifferent_ she is towards the notes and then Helga will have to deal with Phoebe's pity when it turns out to be a prank after all—that no one in their right mind would ever think these things about Helga, let alone risk social suicide to send her written evidence of it.

"I know," Helga tells her after a moment, shoving down her guilt when Phoebe only sighs and gives her a patient half-smile.

"As long as you do. Now, can I see what you wrote for our history assignment? I don't think I connected everything the way I should have and you know how Mr. Santiago gets…"

 

♦ ♦ ♦

 

Watching _Doctor Who_ series two re-runs, Helga thinks the cybermen have got it right. Human emotions _are_ impediments. They're destructive and illogical and Helga is feeling no small amount of envy for the bots who don't have to deal with the fickle whims of their hearts or the chaotic, messy nature of humanity anymore.

Even though the volume of the television is at its highest setting she can still hear the angry voices from the living room as clearly as if they are coming from the next room. The sudden sound of her mother's hoarse voice rising to a shout, followed by her father's thunderous bellow, makes her flinch, and her eyes fall without her consent onto the scrap of paper in her hand.

 

> _You make my heart flutter._

 

This is the note that awaited her when she opened her locker on Friday, two minutes before the late bell was scheduled to ring. She was written up for a tardy by some brown-nosing hall monitor, but she would be lying if she claimed to care.

Because apparently she makes someone's heart flutter.

"— _I can't believe you! God, just when I think you can't be any more worthless—"_

"— _Don't talk to me about worthless, Bob! Should I remind you who's been taking care of this fucking household while you're out there screwing—"_

Helga scoots closer to the television, so close her eyes blur and the sound is a deafening pounding in her ears. But it does the job of drowning out her parent's arguing so she remains there, knees tucked beneath her chin, arms hugging her legs.

One would think that after so many years of having to listen this she would be used to it by now. But she isn't, and doubts she ever will be.

Helga examines the creased note for the umpteenth time, eyes roaming over the five little words like, if she stares at them long enough, they'll sink into her and chase away the present coldness inside her; fill her with warmth.

It doesn't, but it helps somewhat, knowing that somewhere out there, maybe, just maybe, someone is thinking about her. Unlike her parents who are always too busy working, indulging in their vices, or arguing with each other to realize she exists. Unlike her sister who'd rather spend time with the children she's paid to teach instead of her very own flesh and blood, only calling every other month when she remembers she isn't an only child, and dropping by even less.

The sound of the front door slamming startles her and she wrenches her head up. Waits. After a moment of deliberation she lowers the volume, only to raise it again when the sound of her mother's heavy sobbing fill her ears. Her empty stomach rumbles insistently but she ignores it. She doesn't want to be anywhere near Miriam right now, who has a tendency to lash out at the nearest individual when she's feeling vulnerable. No, she'll give it an hour or so in hopes that her mother will be passed out drunk when she finally comes out.

Sighing explosively, Helga flops to the floor, her back hitting the thick rug with a heavy _thud_. She stares up at the million tiny pebbles that erupt from the ceiling for a long time before her eyes start to ache and she closes them.

 _You make my heart flutter,_ the words echo in her head.

She tries not to take too much comfort from the sentiment.

She doesn't succeed.

 

 


	2. Secret Admirer

 

Here's the thing: Helga has tried _extremely_ hard not to put a voice or face to the person sending her these notes, but somewhere along the line, perhaps around the eighth one, it just sort of happens. One moment the imaginary voice is generic, the kind you wouldn't pick out in a crowd. That was fine, until the voice starts changing—turning lower and deeper, yawning smooth, whisper soft.

Features are quick to follow. Before long the nondescript figure she's imagined being slumped over a pile of sticky notes and crowding before her locker begins to change form, shifting more and more into someone she's uncomfortably familiar with as the days go by. And now when Helga closes her eyes and envisions him, she can too clearly imagine long fingers with blunt nails gripping a ballpoint pen, and loam-brown eyes tracking her movements in the halls, and a wide-set face turning towards her with a smile, his low, satin voice calling her name.

It makes her want to punch something because she thought herself _done_ with her stupid crush on a boy long since proven to want nothing to do with her. She made a promise to herself when she started high school that she'd let her creepy infatuation fall off a cliff and die, and she was so sure she'd been successful. Alright, so maybe she did think about the boy from time to time but that was to be expected, wasn't it? He _was_ her first love after all; it made sense that she clung to some lingering attachment.

If anyone had asked her if she still loved the boy she would have been able to say _no_ with a straight face, even tone, and steady heart.

But now…now Helga isn't so sure anymore. And that _infuriates_ her. She hates to think her resolve is so weak that feelings she once thought buried and dead rear themselves at the earliest opportunity. Hates to think that all this time she's just been deluding herself.

And how can she _not_ consider that a possibility with all this damning evidence is staring her in the face? When thinking about her crush in a romantic capacity once more doesn't feel at all unnatural? When imaging him writing these messages and slipping them into her locker makes her heart swell with renewed hope before she can shove the emotion away?

The day Helga grudgingly accepts that her crush on Arnold Shortman is very much intact, it takes everything she has not to storm up to him and scream in his face. Because she's supposed to have been _done_ with this. Done with him. Isn't it enough that she harbored a torch for him all throughout grade school and middle school? Was she _ever_ going to get over him?

She doesn't think so.

And it _sucks._ She wishes her stupid subconscious had just stayed put. At least when she was deluding herself she didn't have to remember what it felt like to want someone who didn't want her back. Didn't have to deal with the twinge in her heart when she acknowledged there was about as much a chance of anything coming from it as there was of the sun turning pink.

And to make matters worse, it's as if her mind decides to make up for three years of suppression by bombarding her with all the things she's been so happy to have been rid of, her overactive imagination churning out more fantasies that she can keep up with.

And that's exactly what they are: fantasies and daydreams. Because not in a million years would Arnold reciprocate her feelings.

Needless to say, Helga is not at all happy with the sudden turn her life has taken. The notes that used to cause her simple pleasure now make butterflies flutter uncomfortably in her stomach. She reads each one, old and new, with a hope that _aches_. She can't help imagining that Arnold is the one writing them even as common sense tells her that it isn't likely. He's never shown an iota of romantic interest in her, let alone of that magnitude. It's not him. It's _not._

But watching him laugh with Gerald and Lila across the hall—head thrown back and teeth glinting white beneath the ceiling lights, his corn-colored hair a mess across his face—she can't help but want it to be.

 

♦ ♦ ♦

 

"I've had enough!" Phoebe confronts her the following Saturday night.

They're both sprawled across her bed, heads angled towards the television screen. They're watching the first season of _Drop Dead Diva_ , more for Phoebe's benefit than her own. She doesn't complain; it's not as if she's really watching it anyway. As much as she hates to admit it her attention is solely on the note she received yesterday, now tucked into an inner pocket within her bag.

A note that she's itching to re-read despite having memorized it almost immediately upon finding it.

She's being pathetic, she _knows_ this, but she can't help it. This note is different—not only is it the longest by far, written on loose leaf to accommodate its verboseness, but it's the only one to contain more than just pretty words of praise. It reveals something—albeit nothing incriminating—about its writer and is personal in a way the others haven't been. And Helga can admit, if only to herself, that it resonates with her more deeply than the others have. That it—

"Helga!" Phoebe's voice startles her, and Helga looks up to find her friend frowning at her. "You see this, _this right here,_ is what I'm talking about. What is going _on_ with you? You've been so distracted lately—and don't you dare say _nothing,"_ Phoebe snaps when Helga opens her mouth to say just that. She closes it with an audible click.

"I'm not stupid," Phoebe continues, "and I know something's wrong. So I repeat: what's going on with you?And so help me if you lie to me again! _"_

Helga stares at her usually mild-mannered friend with shocked awe. She can't remember the last time Phoebe has raised her voice, let alone at _her._ She blinks rapidly for a moment, mind grasping for a believable excuse and coming up empty. It's for the best, she supposes.

She can't lie to her best friend.

"I've been getting these…notes," she admits grudgingly. She rolls off the bed and onto her feet as Phoebe's brows furrow in confusion.

"Notes?"

"Just…hold on a sec." Helga snags her bag from the floor and rummages through it. The latest note is wedged inside her book of the week, a pristine copy of _The Brothers Karamazov,_ and she slides it out slowly with gentle fingers. She re-reads it once, unable to help herself, then hands it over to Phoebe with a reluctant, "Here."

Then she waits.

"Oh my," Phoebe says after an agonizingly long moment. When Helga looks at her, her eyes are wide behind her glasses and her mouth has fallen open in a silent _o._ "I can see why you'vebeen distracted, yes."

Helga's only response is a snort.

Phoebe reads the note again, and it takes all of Helga's self-restraint not to snatch it out of her hands. Her feet tap impatiently against the floor until finally Phoebe sighs in exasperation, neatly folds the paper, and relinquishes it with visible reluctance. Helga spares no time in liberating it from her and returning it to where it was.

"I'm assuming you don't know who the… _writer_ is?" Phoebe asks, repositioning herself until she's sitting cross-legged. She pats the empty space beside her and Helga hesitates only a moment before slowly crawling towards it. With a sigh she flops onto her back and closes her eyes. It does nothing to diminish the feeling of being scrutinized, and she has half a mind to tell Phoebe to quit staring at her before she gives it up as a lost cause.

The sooner her friend's curiosity gets sated the sooner things will go back to normal.

"No," Helga answers after a moment. And then, to nip the inevitable question in the bud, says, "Whoever it is has been slipping the notes into my locker long before I get to school. I'm never early enough to catch them."

"I see," Phoebe says, and there's something in her tone that makes Helga crack one eye open warily. She appraises the other girl—notes her flushed cheeks, her bright gaze, the suspicious twitching of her mouth—and buries her face in her hands with a disbelieving groan. She should have known that Phoebe, unapologetic romantic at heart, was going to be gung-ho about this. She was probably hearing wedding bells and planning her bridesmaid speech at the very moment.

" _No,_ Phoebs, you really don't," Helga grouses, pushing herself to her elbows. She gazes at her friend steadily, willing her to understand. "It's probably just a prank. Actually, it's _definitely_ just a prank. So don't put much stock in it, okay?"

For a second Helga's eyes flicker to the side, not wanting her friend to see how much it bothers her to speak these words out loud, though she's said them to herself often enough. _It's not as if it isn't true,_ she thinks, settling down again and ignoring the voice in the back of her head that's whispering, _liar, you don't entirely believe that yourself anymore._

Helga imagines herself muffling the voice before she returns her attention to Phoebe, who's pursing her lips, clearly wanting to deny that possibility but too pragmatic to do so. She's more than aware of how many enemies Helga has made for herself throughout the years.

"I suppose," Phoebe says reluctantly before pinning Helga with a determined look, "but don't you dismiss the possibility of it being real either. Frankly, this seems like an awful amount of effort for something as trivial as a _prank_. I mean, the letter _seemed_ genuine—no, no, I know," she raises her palm before Helga can protest and continues. "I've only read the one letter and that's hardly a large enough sample to come to any solid conclusions with, but even so. My instincts are telling me it's not a prank and you know how reliable they are."

Phoebe pierces her with a glare before Helga can so much as open her mouth. "Bring up that _one, singular_ incident and _die._ "

Helga turns her face away to hide her grin.

"One time," Phoebe mutters darkly to herself. "Make a mistake _one time_ and no one lets you forget it."

"Well, that one time did lead to— _ow , Phoebs_!" She laughs and catches the pillow that's thrown at her. "Okay, okay, I won't bring it up again! Sorry!"

Phoebe huffs but nevertheless drops the second pillow she was aiming to throw. She places it on her lap instead, observing Helga with an expression that's equal parts disconcerting and sobering.

Helga clutches the captured pillow and braces herself for what's to come.

"You," she starts, bites her lip, forges on. "What will you do if it's _not_ a prank, Helga?"

"It is," Helga says immediately.

"But if it _isn't_ ," Phoebe insists, adjusting her glasses at the corners. "Don't you want to know who it is?"

"Not really," Helga lies, and is rewarded with an unconvinced look for her efforts. "Look, let's say it's _not_ a prank." She pauses to swallow the lump that rises to her throat. "Clearly the person doesn't want to reveal themselves for a reason, and how am I supposed to figure it out anyway, huh? Camp out in front of my locker?"

 _Uh, obviously,_ Phoebe's expression seems to say.

Helga rolls her eyes. "Look," she tries again, "it's got nothing to do with me, alright? Just because someone may or may not…l-like me—" there it is again, that goddamned lump, "—doesn't mean _I_ have to do something about it, or respond in any way. I'm not obligated or anything, you know."

"I know, but…" Phoebe trails off, clearly unhappy. "Whoever it is seems to genuinely care for you—"

"Assuming it's not a prank," Helga interjects.

"And you already know what my opinion on that is," Phoebe adds with a roll of her eyes. "I just don't want to you to let this opportunity pass. For romance," she elaborates at Helga's questioning look, and deliberately ignores the responding scoff. "You never know, Helga. This person could be _the one_. I just don't want you to miss out on anything because you're…"

 _Afraid,_ she doesn't say, but Helga sees it in her eyes all too clearly, can practically hear the word hovering in the air. She glares at Phoebe, annoyed and refusing to acknowledge what a tiny part of her has already come to realize is true.

Helga turns onto her side and shuts her eyes again, ignoring the way her insides suddenly feel too large for her skin.

"Do you even hear yourself?" Helga scoffs derisively. "Nattering on about _the one_ as if such a thing even exists. Y'know, no one looking at you would expect that you're this cheesy, hopeless romantic _._ "

She hears Phoebe change positions again, springs on her well-used mattress creaking as she settles down beside her. Feels the warmth of Phoebe's skin as their arms align, the tickle of hair as it brushes against her neck. For a long, uncomfortable moment the only sound to be heard is their collective breathing, deafening in the silence, until it's interrupted by Phoebe's soft utterance of, "Nor you."

The words sting, proving just how deep their friendship runs. Helga can count on one hand the number of people who have enough power over her to hurt her with words alone. Many have tried, making shots in the dark in the hopes of hitting _something_ , all with nothing more than a false assumption of her character, of her _motives,_ to guide them.

Needless to say, they rarely land hits.

Helga doesn't have typical teenage girl insecurities. She doesn't care that she's five foot eleven and flat as a washboard. She doesn't care that her face is boring and her hair's an uncontrollable mess. She doesn't care that she has no sense of fashion to speak of, that she's short-tempered and bad-mannered, that most guys don't even consider her to be a _girl_. And fortunately for Helga, that's what those brave enough to insult her to her face tend to focus on, making jabs at her unattractiveness, her undesirability, her anti-socialness _,_ as if she doesn't already know these things. As if she's bothered by any of it.

Helga's insecurities are more complex than that. So much so that even _she_ struggles to get a good grasp on them, as if they're abstract paintings that change shape and meaning with the slightest shift in angle or mood. She keeps them close, hides then in a small, dusty chamber in her heart that's hidden behind enough barriers to dissuade even herself from looking at them too closely. And it works, for the most part, until something, or someone, forces her to remember they exist. Like now.

Phoebe's her best friend, has been for twelve years, and she wouldn't give her up for anything, but sometimes—sometimes Helga can't help but wish she didn't know her so well. That she couldn't see the truth in every lie she gives, even the ones meant for herself.

"Not anymore," Helga says when she manages to find her voice again.

Phoebe curls her hand around Helga's and squeezes, and not for a second does Helga believe her silence is born from disagreement.

 

♦ ♦ ♦

  

> _I wish I had the courage to tell you who I am, but I'm certain you'd hit me if you knew it was me, though I hope it wouldn't come to that._
> 
> _The only ones who know how I feel about you are my two best friends and one of them isn't exactly supportive. He thinks you're cruel and selfish, but I know you're not. There have been so many occasions where you were kind to me, though fewer now that we no longer run in the same circles. You're rough around the edges, and I wouldn't say that you're a saint, but you aren't cruel or selfish._
> 
> _Sure you have a sharp tongue, but everything that rolls off it is witty (and between you and me, often funny). I like that you're blunt enough to speak your mind. And maybe you do scowl a lot, but I find it kinda endearing._
> 
> _You can be short-tempered and forceful, but…I like you anyway. Especially when I think of the kind of kisser you'd be. Sometimes I imagine you pushing me against the lockers and kissing me hard enough to bruise. That would be…more than okay._
> 
> _Don't misunderstand—even though I like you, glares and all, I wish I could be the one to make you laugh more. I wish you'd always look at me with a smile. I wish you thought I was worth being gentle with._

 

♦ ♦ ♦

 

Helga isn't surprised that Phoebe somehow convinces her to bring every note she's been given—all sixteen of them—to school the following Monday despite her better judgment.

She truly does not want Phoebe to read them all, _especially_ in the middle of the cafeteria, but as Phoebe logically points out, it's as good a place as any. They have a corner table to themselves, nestled between a wall and a vending machine that's been out of order for years. That, and no one's quite willing, or daring enough, to spend their lunch period sitting beside _Helga_ of all people. Every so often Helga makes sure to sweep her chilliest glare across the room, effectively dissuading the few who'd risk her ire to speak with Phoebe from attempting to do so. It seems to work, as not even Liam Boyd—Phoebe's biggest fan—has glanced in their direction after Helga caught his gaze the first time.

Good.

"Your writer—" because _secret admirer_ makes Helga cringe, and is too obvious besides, "—certainly has a way with words," Phoebe says, eyes glued to the opening of Helga's bag where the notes lay scattered in a small nondescript box.

This is Helga's sole condition: the notes are to stay in her bag _at all times_ and be put away the instant someone so much as glances curiously in their direction.

Phoebe called her paranoid. Helga didn't refute it.

" _Such_ a way," she repeats wistfully.

Helga wars with herself for a moment but eventually her curiosity wins out. She leans over Phoebe's shoulder to see which note her friend is reading and has to clench her hands into fists to keep from reaching out and snatching it away.

It's the latest one, found stuck to the inside of her locker door as if the culprit had been in a rush and hadn't enough time to slip it in properly, and her face burns as her eyes glide over the familiar words:

 

> _Sometimes when I see you it's all I can to do not to stop and stare because of how stunning you are. The other day I saw you reading under a tree in the courtyard and the sight of you nearly took my breath away. I don't know which I was more jealous of—the book you held between your hands that was more successful in securing your attention than I've ever been, or the tree you were comfortably leaning against._
> 
> _Can I tell you a secret? Sometimes it frustrates me that I'm the only guy (that I know of) who sees you the way I do. Other times I'm unimaginably relieved, since someone much braver than I would have probably swept you off your feet already._
> 
> _Am I accomplishing that? Sweeping you off your feet? I hope I am, since it's what you deserve for constantly stealing the breath from my lungs._

 

"You're delusional if you think this is just a prank," Phoebe tells her for the nth time as she folds the letter, places it carefully into the box, and pulls out another. Helga glances at it and then away, already knowing what's written on it.

It's the only note written on an index card, ink purple and blotched in some areas. She received it on a Wednesday, she remembers. It had been raining and she'd left the house without an umbrella in her rush to escape her parent's incessant arguing. By the time she reached the school she'd been soggy and cold and too distracted by her own misery to remember that it was _note day_.

Helga will never admit it to anyone, but the note had done more than simply make her day—it had helped her through another godawful family dinner and the inevitable night of fighting that followed.

 

> _Something pretty awful happened yesterday. I almost didn't go to school because of it, but my guardians insisted so I went. The moment I stepped foot into the building I thought 'screw it' and was going to go back home, and then I heard something amazing: you laughed. You were all the way down a hall filled with dozens of students and still I was able to pinpoint you in an instant. I don't think I can properly put into words how much I love the way you laugh—loud and unrestrained the way most girls never do. It lasted scant seconds but it was enough to lift my mood the way few things in that moment could have._
> 
> _I'm glad I stayed in school that day for a lot of reasons, but hearing you laugh like that will always be the most significant one. I hope that one day I'll be able to prompt that kind of laughter from you. I hope you'll give me a chance to try._

 

Re-reading it now, she has to force down a familiar swell of unwelcome emotions.

This note is the first to make her think of the writer as more than just a distant, abstract figure, but a real breathing human being—flesh and blood and as capable of being hurt as she is.

If Helga struggled to keep her writer nondescript before—to keep him from taking on features and characteristics of a certain maddening someone—she finds it's almost impossible now. This is the note that starts it all, the one that opens the floodgates to old hurts and yearnings she thought herself rid of; that silences the part of her that still clings to the hope of this being some grand vengeance scheme, to be buried in a dark, unused corner of her mind until it fades away like all inconsequential things do.

 _It's all moot now,_ she thinks, eyeing the card with no small amount of resentment.

Helga has tried _so hard_ to remain unaffected. In the beginning it had been easy to pretend she was an observer reading lines meant for someone else—some other lucky protagonist with a seemingly infatuated love interest. But then the writer started leaving bits of himself behind, just enough to give him a three-dimensional quality and pique her interest, and then it spiraled out of control from there.

Helga closes her eyes against the unfairness of it all and drops her head into her arms. Thinks of how much easier it would be if it _were_ a prank. She can deal with that, the same way she's dealt with other attempts to 'bring her down a peg.' Having someone possibly feel this way about her, on the other hand, is not something she's at all equipped to 's not something she _wants_ to handle, either.

She doesn't tell this to Phoebe, but sometimes she feels like she has to physically restrain herself from setting every single note on fire. It's pointless to mention this because she _knows_ she won't, knows she can't. And even if she _did,_ she's read them all so many times that at this point they're nothing but reference material, the words long since seared into whatever section of the brain controls long term memory.

 _God, I'm pathetic,_ she tells herself just as a shadow falls over her. She's sitting upright in an instant, hand reaching for her bag in case Phoebe's not fast enough to hide the notes before they're seen, only to freeze when a familiar voice says, "Uh, hey."

Helga snaps her gaze towards the person hovering in front of their table, paying only partial attention to Phoebe as she zips her bag closed. There's a momentary feeling of relief but it disappears the moment the guy—the moment _Arnold_ —looks at her.

Her breath hitches. This is the nearest she's been to him in _months_ and she's helpless to do anything but catalogue the details of his appearance, her mind unconsciously filing away everything that's changed. Very little has. He's gotten a little taller and his hair is a few inches shorter, making the usual mess atop his head seem that much more intentional. But everything else about him is the same, from his too-brown eyes to the slight, ever-present quirk of his lips. To the plaid button-down he favors that should _never_ look attractive yet somehow does on him.

"Helga," he greets her, and she feels her heart stutter in her chest. She can't remember the last time she heard her name fall from those lips. 'Helga' is a harsh name, she's always thought so, but somehow when he says it, it almost sounds _delicate._

 _But then,_ Helga thinks as she tries to compose herself, _most things Arnold says tend to sound that way._ In Arnold's voice even curse words sound gentle. She once heard him say "Shit," and nearly laughed herself sick because coming from him it didn't sound like a curse at all.

"Hey, Arnold. Is there something you needed?" Phoebe asks, just loud enough to tug Helga from her daze.

Helga forces herself to look away, though not before catching sight of Arnold jerking his gaze away from her, eyes blinking rapidly, a sign that he's either been taken off guard or is trying to hide something—

 _Stop right there,_ Helga tells herself with a mental shake. _That way leads only to madness._

"What? Oh, right. Okay, so I know we agreed to work on the project today but something came up. Would it be okay if we rescheduled it for tomorrow? I'll be able to stay longer and—"

Helga quickly figures out that they're discussing one of their midterm projects and _tries_ to tune them out. As furtively as possible she drags her bag towards her, lowers it under the table, and tucks it between her feet. She's aware of how paranoid she's being but can't bring herself to care.

She rests her chin on her palm and shuts her eyes. Pretends she isn't reveling in the sensation of Arnold's voice washing over her. It's soothing, a contradicting mix of strong yet soft. The world around her goes distant and quiet until all she can hear is the push and pull of her breath, and the heavy throb of her heart, and the smooth tenor of Arnold's voice in her ears, calming and attention-grabbing at once.

"—lga. _Helga_!"

Helga's eyes snap open as she jerks so hard her forehead nearly hits the table. She turns an irritated glare in Phoebe's direction but her friend, long since desensitized to looks that would make other people's knees give out, tosses her an unimpressed look and quirks her brow.

"Nice to see you're still here with us," she says, causing Helga to flush. "Anyway, I won't be working on that project I mentioned after all so we can still hit the mall after school if you're up for it?"

"Yeah," Helga agrees immediately, never mind that she's been ordered to attend another dinner with Big Bob and his business associates.

Her dad can suck on an egg as far as she's concerned.

"Okay," Phoebe says, a knowing glint in her eye. She then returns her attention to the person who Helga is doing her utmost to pretend doesn't exist and, _without running it by Helga first_ , invites him to join them.

Helga almost chokes on her own spit.

"I wish I could," Arnold says, eyeing Helga for a brief moment before returning his focus to Phoebe, "but I've got things to do. Maybe next time?" Another quick glance in her direction, and it dawns on her that maybe he _does_ want to go, only not with _Helga_ there.

The thought makes something heavy form in the pit of her stomach, and she clenches her jaw and glares down at the table, her hands forming fists from where they're tucked underneath.

"I'll hold you to that," Phoebe says, grin in her voice, and Arnold's answering chuckle makes the heaviness in her stomach that much more unbearable.

"Alright. See ya, Phoebe." A pause, and then, "Bye, Helga."

There's a thread of something in his voice when he says her name, something Helga doesn't waste time trying to decipher. Instead she levels an impatient look at him—not quite able to meet his eyes, to her frustration—and snaps, "Would you get lost already?"

There's a pause, tense and uncomfortable, but Helga weathers it with practiced stoicism. She doesn't look up even when Arnold makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a sigh of defeat and finally, finally walks away.

Phoebe's slow exhale is what eventually pulls her gaze away from the whirling patterns on the table, and when she glances towards her friend, it's to find her pulling off her glasses and rubbing the bridge of her nose.

Never a good sign, Helga knows, and instinctively braces herself for the lecture on manners that's doubtless to come.

But Phoebe doesn't say a word, only continues her ministrations long enough for Helga to start feeling unnerved. When at long last she _does_ turn towards her, it's with so much disappointment etched onto her face that Helga almost flinches.

"I'm going to the library," Phoebe mutters, shouldering her messenger bag and rising to her feet.

"Phoebe," Helga calls before the other girl has made it five steps away from their table. Something akin to panic works its way up her throat and she's forced to pause to swallow it down.

Helga doesn't have many genuine fears, but she's harbored this one for as long as she can remember. The thought of Phoebe leaving, of Phoebe no longer wanting anything to do with Helga and all the emotional baggage she carries, of Phoebe realizing how much _better off_ she'll be without her and doing what anyone sane would do and call it quits…it makes something awful unfurl at the center of her chest.

"Phoebe," she says again, stopping when the girl shakes her head and turns, what can barely be considered a smile low on her face.

"We're okay," Phoebe says soothingly, as if Helga is a spooked horse on the verge of trampling to death everything in her path. "We're okay. I just need a moment to think, okay? It's…I realized something just now. Well, a lot of somethings. And I need to…put everything into perspective, I think, and figure out how I'm going to proceed from here."

Helga doesn't understand. It must show on her face because Phoebe's smile turns a touch more genuine as she closes the distance between them and takes Helga's hand.

"We're okay," she says again, firmly.

Helga nods, finally convinced enough to breathe.

"Don't get me wrong; I'm still angry with you, Helga. You were unnecessarily cruel to Arnold when he'd done absolutely _nothing_ to warrant it. Now, I'm pretty sure I've figured out the reason why—"

Helga's eyes go wide in alarm.

"—but that's still no excuse. You," Phoebe stops, looking frustrated. "You're such a likeable person, Helga. No, you _are._ I wouldn't be your best friend if I didn't think you had lots of amazing qualities. I just wish you'd stop pushing other people away before they get a chance to see that."

She squeezes Helga's hand between her own and says quietly, "Helga, I can't be your only friend, the only person you ever let in. What if something happens to me, huh? What then? You'll be all alone, and no matter what you think, I know you don't actually want that.

"Just…think about what I'm saying, please. I'm not asking you to _change_ who you are. I'm just asking that you…consider letting other people _see_ you. I truly think you'll be surprised by how many people will choose to stay."

With one final squeeze of Helga's fingers she walks away, leaving Helga feeling scrubbed raw. She's incapable of doing anything but staring at her friend's back until her knees finally give out and she sinks numbly into her seat. After a moment she turns around, plasters on the most impassive expression she can muster, and stares unseeingly at her hands atop the table. They're shaking, and she clenches them hard enough to leave crescent-shaped indents on her palm before forcing them to relax.

This isn't the first time Phoebe has said such things to her, but never before did she sound so _serious_ while saying them, looking into Helga's eyes and willing her to do more than just listen, but to _understand._ It's the first time Phoebe has gripped her hand not just to comfort, though there was that, but to fetter her; to make sure she didn't run, to make sure she _couldn't_ run. Even now Helga can feel a phantom grip on her fingers, painless but firm, tightening around her every time she so much as considers pulling out a book and losing herself in someone else's problems, someone else's world.

For the first time in _ever_ , she thinks she'd rather brave dinner with her parents than hang out with Phoebe. She doesn't know what she's going to say the next time they see each other, or even if she should say anything at all.

Phoebe's been the only good constant in her life for years, and not knowing if she can count on that anymore makes her feel like she's stranded on a boat in the middle of the ocean with no light to guide her and no oars to row.

It hits Helga, then, that this is exactly what Phoebe has been going on about. Not that it's anything Helga hasn't already known. Phoebe is the only good thing she has in her life, her sole friend and, as far as she's concerned, family. Without her, Helga really will have nothing.

She'll be completely alone.

Helga hisses a breath and clutches her bag to her. She knows this. Has _always_ known this. But having someone, having _Phoebe_ , say it out loud—making it tangible enough to physically hurt—it bothers her in a way it never has before. She tries to dismiss the thoughts from her mind but they refuse to go.

She gives up after a long moment and buries her face in her hands. Breathes deeply, even if at the moment breathing only seems to hurt.

She's distracted some minutes later by the prickling sensation of being watched, and she looks up, automatically honing in on the source. She almost groans when she sees that it's _Arnold_ of all people, sat at his usual table. Of course it is, because that's the kind of luck Helga has.

His eyes widen, likely at being caught staring, but to Helga's confusion he doesn't look away. He continues to watch her, the lip he's worrying between his teeth the only indicator that he isn't as nerveless as he looks. Helga hates that she knows this about him. It's easy, after that, to send an annoyed glare his way. Not much heat goes into it—even that much effort feels taxing at the moment—and maybe that's the reason he doesn't turn away.

Instead, he nods.

Helga blinks at him, her halfhearted glare fading as bewilderment takes over. She has no idea what he's playing at, and has half a mind to conjure the dirtiest look she can, because right now she's feeling frustrated and guilty and no small amount of helpless and the last thing she needs is _Arnold_ of all people yanking her chain. She's about to, can already feel her eyes narrowing and her lips curling back in a snarl, but Phoebe's words echo in her ears and her face goes blank instead.

_'I just wish you'd stop pushing other people away before they get a chance to see that.'_

It's an interesting sensation, feeling one's fight drain out of them. She can see Arnold's face scrunch, and no doubt he's wondering what the heck's wrong with her. Helga wishes she had an answer to give. Maybe that will explain why, instead of glaring at him like she planned to or better yet, ignoring him, she…nods back.

It's a slight thing, no more than a tiny dip of her head, but it's enough. Arnold stares at her for a long moment until his lips begin to curl into a smile, and Helga has to roll her eyes because _geez, it's just a freakin' head nod, give me a break._ She turns away with a huff, ignoring stupid Arnold and his stupid smile and the stupid butterflies that are wreaking havoc in her stomach. She snatches her bag from the table and stalks away, pointedly ignoring the feeling of eyes on her back.

Helga is _done_ with the day. She ignores the sudden blaring of the bell indicating the end of the period and walks right out of the school through one of its many side doors, making for the courtyard where her favorite tree resides.

She's just getting comfortable on the warm grass, the trunk of the tree a solid weight at her back, when a particular line from the day's note flashes in her mind.

_The other day I saw you reading under a tree in the courtyard and the sight of you nearly took my breath away._

Helga almost screams. It's a very near thing.

' _Am I accomplishing that? Sweeping you off your feet?'_ A voice that sounds far too much like Arnold's whispers in her head, and Helga wants to clamp her ears shut, even knowing how futile it will be, because it's not _real,_ will _never_ be real, will never be anything more than her own mind trying to see how far it can provoke her before she snaps.

At the current rate she's going, she doesn't think that moment will be far off.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ♥


	3. A Heart's Wish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the beta, [Chellythemadhatter](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/2065167/chellythemadhatter)! ♥

 

 

> _I know it's Tuesday, and off-schedule, but I noticed you looked…sad, yesterday, and I thought—well, I really hoped, anyway—that this might cheer you up (though in hindsight it's probably not very cheerful…sorry). I wish I could do it in person, but I've never really been good with words and probably wouldn't know what to say even if I were._
> 
> _Okay, here goes: I love that you're tall. Most guys would think I'm crazy for saying this, especially since I'm only of average height myself, but I do. I've only had one girlfriend in the past and she was shorter than me, and though it was nice, sometimes I found myself wondering what it would be like to be the shorter one in a relationship. I like the idea of being engulfed in hugs, and being spooned at night, and constantly being leaned on and held because my height allows for it. Not to say that I have some sort of tall girl fetish, because I don't. Even saying this, I definitely wouldn't be comfortable being the shorter half in a relationship with just anyone. It's not a very masculine thing to want, and I can't imagine most girls would be okay with that._
> 
> _I don't know if you fall under the category of "most girls" but I get the feeling that you don't. Or maybe that's just wishful thinking on my part, that you'll be okay with the kind of guy I am; not feminine, but maybe not traditionally masculine either. Just…me._
> 
> _I hope, if you ever discover who I am, that will be enough for you._
> 
> _Anyway, I hope whatever was bothering you yesterday has been resolved. Or will be resolved soon. Take care._

 

♦ ♦ ♦

 

Helga reads the letter—this one written on what seems to be a piece of paper ripped right out of a composition notebook—four times before tucking it into a well-worn copy of Goethe's _Faust I & II._

She thinks it's a good thing Mr. Writer—who she's finally able to completely rule out as a girl, not that she ever really considered it a possibility, but she likes being thorough—gave this to her today instead of tomorrow. Phoebe won't even think to ask if she's received anything, and Helga…

She glances at the portion of the letter sticking out of the book before she gently shuts her locker and snaps the combination lock shut.

This one, she decides, she'll keep to herself. It seems too…personal to share, meant for her eyes alone.

It's a dangerous thought, but nevertheless true.

 

♦ ♦ ♦

 

Helga's in her last period class when she gives into the urge to write a list. _The_ list. It's short. There's not much information to be had, and what there is she's already memorized. When she finishes she stares at her notebook, wholly unimpressed with what she's managed to compile. It may _look_ impressive, considering her wri— _the_ writer really hasn't given her much to go on, but in the end she's not even able to narrow it down a little bit.

  

  * _Male, average height, likely not macho-masculine in disposition, neutral/neat handwriting and a fondness for cream-colored sticky notes. Possibly shy or reserved. Likely an avid reader, probably of romance novels._
  * _Has a 0 pd. class at least Mon and Wed, possibly Fri. Reason: probably lab, tutoring and/or extracurricular._
  * _He was in a position to notice me cutting class, likely during 7th pd. Calc. So either he has the period free or he saw me from an eastern window on either the second or third floor. [need more data.]_
  * _He probably sits directly behind me in at least one class [see note #3]._
  * _We used to run in the same circles, no longer do so. We might have, at one point, been acquaintances. [see note #6]_
  * _He had a girlfriend before who was shorter than him. No mention of reason for break-up. May or may not be a virgin, considering his mention of nighttime spooning._
  * _He has two best friends. One is a male and dislikes me._
  * _He goes to the mall on Sundays, so probably not crazy-religious._
  * _He has "guardians"; no mention of parents._
  * _He's probably a stalker. There's also 99.9% chance that he's completely delusional and in need of real psychiatric help, regardless what Phoebe says._



 

"Yeah, that's real helpful," she mutters under her breath before snapping the book shut. There's only five minutes left of the period anyway and the teacher is still going on about her days as a hippie in the 60s and how she protested on Wall Street and Washington DC and in eleven different Walmart's.

She's bored, and her mind wanders as it always does when there's nothing interesting around to stimulate it. It isn't until the bell rings and she's gathering up her things that she realizes what she's spent the past five minutes thinking about.

Arnold.

And how, exempting the last bullet point (to the best of her knowledge), he could theoretically fit under every single category.

 _Don't do this to yourself,_ Helga thinks desperately as she storms out of the room, uncaring that's she's knocked at least two people to the floor in her haste, their shouts drowned out by the sudden buzzing in her head. _You're not that little girl anymore, Helga. Don't you dare backslide now._

Helga can remember all too clearly how she used to be—seeing constellations where only stars existed, chasing anything that remotely matched the crazy visions in her head and revering them as signs of inevitability.

Helga knows herself, knows she can be obsessive to a frightening degree and that she's bullheaded about letting past things go. She's calmed down a lot since she was a kid, and most of her obsessions these days are pretty innocuous, limited to academic pursuits and what few hobbies she has time for in between. But there's something about Arnold that always brings out the worst in her. Something that draws out the passion she's tried so hard to temper, and makes her impulsive and single-minded and desperate and wild. She's never been able to define what it is, and maybe that's for the best. All she knows is that left unchecked, Helga has the capacity to spiral out of control where he's concerned, to throw caution to the wind and logic out the window, allowing only her instincts and impulses to guide her.

It's scary what that boy—plain by anyone's standards except hers—can do to her. How easy it is to lose herself when she's with him. How swiftly all the barriers she keeps around herself collapse the moment he's near, leaving her spread open and vulnerable and too damn enraptured to care.

There's a reason Helga exerted so much effort into trying to fall out of love with him.

Nothing good has _ever_ come from loving Arnold. She can't let herself forget that.

 

♦ ♦ ♦

 

"Mr. Tanaka asked me to run a quick errand but you _know_ how he is and I don't want Arnold to think I ditched him! Just let him know I'll be there if a few minutes, okay?"

Before Helga can even open her mouth to protest Phoebe is off, her tiny frame easily disappearing in the throng of students rushing to escape the school.

Helga is 98.5% sure Phoebe's doing this on purpose.

She has half a mind to leave and let Phoebe deal with the consequences, and yet she still finds herself making her way towards the library. She and Phoebe are still on slightly rocky ground after the _conversation_ they had yesterday, and Helga doesn't want to make it worse. And she knows that if she ignores the favor asked of her Phoebe will think it's because she's still upset, and the last thing Helga wants at the moment, or _ever_ , is to rehash _that_ conversation. So she goes, dragging her feet the whole way as if she's heading to an executioner's block and not the library to have a ten second conversation with a fellow classmate.

Even if said classmate is the last person she wants to see right now.

Helga finds him easily enough. He looks to have just gotten there, spreading out books on an empty corner table between the rarely ventured World Politics aisle and a narrow window.

She takes a moment to gather herself. And that's all she's doing. She's absolutely _not_ staring at the way strands of his hair shift as he moves, pale yellow beneath the sunlight pouring through the window. Or the way his brow is furrowed in concentration as he digs in his bag for something he can't find. Or the way his shirt, a white Henley—his typical plaid button-down wrapped around his narrow waist—stretches against his shoulders and arms as he moves, reminding Helga that he _is_ a starter on the baseball team. Shortstop, she recalls, and very good at it, too.

Helga doesn't know how long she stands there, staring at him, only that it suddenly registers to her that he's no longer moving. She drags her gaze up his chest, over his throat, past his round chin and wide nose, to his eyes. Brown eyes, the color of honey when reflecting the ceiling lights, and they're staring at her with that same unnamable _something_ in them that makes her nervous and anxious in equal turn.

It's Arnold who breaks the silence with a quiet, "Hi, Helga," and Helga shakes herself out of it, berates herself for losing control of herself _again_ , and after taking a steadying breath, shoulders her bag and steps forward.

"Football head," she greets flatly, ignoring the way he seems to almost roll his eyes at her. "Phoebe's running an errand for that calculus teacher of hers—"

"Mr. Tanaka?"

"Don't care. She's not sure when she'll be here but she doesn't think it'll take too long. Said to just start and she'll catch up. There. Message delivered. My job is done."

Helga turns on her heel, more than ready to be out of there and away from _him_ , when he suddenly calls for her to stop, startling her to stillness.

"What do you want, Arnoldo?" she says without looking back.

"Just. Could you please look at me, Helga? It's weird talking to your back."

"Or I can just go and you won't have to worry about talking to me at all," she points out unkindly.

"Helga."

Helga sighs in exasperation and slowly turns around. A demand for him to step out of the damn sunlight hovers at the tip of her tongue, but she forces it back because saying such a thing would be _weird._

"Can you get on with it?" She settles for saying, tightening one hand over the bag of her strap. "I have things to do, y'know."

She really doesn't, but no one else needs to know that.

Arnold looks at her like he doesn't necessarily believe her, which just pisses her off, but before she can retort something scathing he blurts, "How have you been?"

It's as effective as a glass of water thrown over a lit match, and Helga stares at him in confusion, trying to make sense of what he just said.

"What?"

Arnold looks positively exasperated now, which Helga doesn't think is fair because seriously, _what?_

"How have you been?" he repeats, rocking onto the balls of his feet and stuffing his hands in his pockets. "It's just…we haven't really spoken in a while, right? Which is weird because we share, like, five classes together—not that I'm counting or anything! It's just something I happened to notice, but yeah, we never really…talk anymore. Not that we used to talk much _before,_ but at least I had some vague idea of what you sounded like. I think yesterday was the first time we've spoken to each other this year, isn't that weird? It is, right? And I just thought, well, maybe—"

"You're babbling," Helga interjects somewhat dazedly because Arnold _never_ babbles. Ever. Even at his most flustered he tends to swallow his words rather choke them out. It dawns on her that he must be incredibly nervous right now, and it's because of _her._

Normally Helga feels a vindictive sort of pleasure when people are too intimidated of her to even form whole sentences. But then, those people aren't _Arnold,_ and right now she just feels vaguely sick.

"Sorry—"

"Ugh, just shut up, football head," she snaps, and before she can talk herself out of it, tosses her bag onto the table and plops down into the chair. She ignores the shushes she earns as the legs of the chair grates against the floor.

Arnold blinks at her in open surprise, then slowly starts to smile. He sinks into his own seat, opposite hers, and scoots in, far more quietly than Helga had done. After a moment of simply watching her he drums his fingers against the tabletop and says, "So."

Helga hopes the look she's giving him conveys just how unimpressed she is.

Arnold folds his arms over his chest defensively and frowns. "Now that you're here I don't know what to say."

"Then what was the point in all this?"

An explosive sigh, and he's flinging his arms out. "I don't know, Helga! I just wanted to, I don't know, talk to you. I mean, we've known each other since we were _four_ and yet we treat each other like we're strangers. Don't you think that's weird?"

"No," Helga says bluntly, dropping her elbows onto the table. "Look, you don't have to be friends with _everyone_ , football head. Just because we've literally known each other our whole lives doesn't _mean_ anything." At the stubborn set of his chin Helga rolls her eyes. "You've known Trevor your whole life but you're not exactly on speaking terms with _him._ "

"That's because Trevor's an idiot," Arnold says promptly, before slapping a hand over his mouth.

Helga goggles at his remark, then bites her lip to stifle a snicker.

"What about Brainy?" she asks, because that's someone else who Arnold doesn't hang around anymore.

Arnold bites his lip, seeming to come to a decision, then admits, "He creeps me out. He's always just…there. _Breathing_. And it's not like you can just tell him to _stop_ or something…"

Helga has to bite her knuckle to keep from grinning. "You can. You totally can. Man, I would _pay_ you to do just that."

She's rewarded with a snort. "I'll have to pass on that, thanks. Poor guy gets teased enough."

"He wouldn't if he just stopped," she points out.

"Lucky for Brainy that he's got his priorities sorted, then."

A bark of laughter escapes her before she can stop it, and she meets Arnold amused gaze for a moment before turning her head to look at the window. It's still bright outside, the sun vivid against a cloudless cobalt sky, the day better suited for summer than fall. A sudden gust of wind sweeps past, catching on trees until the branches are swaying and the leaves are being tugged into the air. It's a memorizing sight, one she loses herself in until she remembers herself, remembers where she is, remembers who she's _with_ , and then she's forcing herself back into the present with a mental shake.

When she looks forward it's to find Arnold watching her, chin propped in his hand and eyes sharp beneath hooded lids. There's that _look_ again, that incomprehensible something, and she wets her lips without thinking, her heart rising to her throat as Arnold's eyes drop to track the movement.

She can't breathe. Can actually feel her breath being seized in her lungs, held hostage. Her lips go dry and she wants to wet them again but she doesn't dare, not with Arnold's eyes still lowered on her mouth. Her relief is short-lived when he finally does lift them, only to settle them on her eyes, and that's _worse._ She feels trapped under his gaze, pinned like a moth beneath a sheet of glass, and she doesn't understand what's happening, doesn't understand why he's staring, doesn't understand why her body seems to be inching forward without her permission and—

"Sorry I'm late, sorry I'm late!"

Phoebe's voice, and Helga startles so badly her elbow bangs against the table hard enough to bruise. She curses, cradles the injured joint, then takes a moment to catch her breath as something heavy drops onto the table beside her. It's Phoebe's bag, she notes dazedly as her friend zips it open and starts pulling books out.

"Mr. Takano held me behind forever. I told him I had something important to do and he still kept pushing paperwork on me. I got here as fast as I could. By the way, Helga, what are you still doing here? Did you need something?"

Helga stares at her. It takes a while for her words to register, but the instant they do she shakes her head and jumps to her feet. "Um, no. I mean yes, but it's not important anymore so I'm just going to go. Later, Phoebs." She grabs her bag, hoists it over her shoulder—ignoring the way it jostles her injured elbow—and steps away.

She doesn't even manage a yard before Arnold speaks up.

"See you later, Helga."

She freezes, can practically feel her blood turning to ice, so cold it almost burns. Helga releases the breath she doesn't realize she's holding and forces herself to say, as evenly as she can, "Whatever, Arnoldo," before stalking away.

She gives herself a mental pat on the back for making it out of the library at a steady pace. Swivels her gaze in all directions as soon as she's in the hall, then leans against the wall to give her trembling knees a break.

Helga doesn't know what just happened in there and has no intention whatsoever of analyzing it further. All she knows is that she _needs_ to stay away from Arnold from now on, for the sake of the continued functioning of her heart and lungs if nothing else.

A minute is all she allows of herself to gain her bearings, and then she's pushing herself away from the wall and getting out of the building as fast as she can.

For the rest of the day, whenever her thoughts threaten to wander into dangerous territories she reigns them tightly in. It's mentally exhausting but definitely worth it, if only to keep her fraying sanity from unraveling any further.

**♦ ♦ ♦**

 

 

> _I realized that I've spent a lot of focus on your physical attributes, and as great as they are, there's still so much more that I admire about you. You're smart, and you're witty, and you're clever, and you have a great sense of humor, though others might not always agree. I like that you're brave enough to say what you think and yet you're not careless with your words. I like that you don't need to fill silences with meaningless small talk, content to quietly observe. I like how passionate you are about the things you like and dismissive you are towards the things you don't, as if you know exactly what you want and can't be bothered to waste time on anything else._
> 
> _Everything about you is a maddening combination of free abandon and taut control and it drives me crazy because I can't figure out which facet is the most dominant, if either of them are. You're like a 3D puzzle consisting of a thousand different pieces and sometimes I get overwhelmed thinking about how I'm never going to figure you out. Mostly, though, I'm just looking forward to being able to try._

 

♦ ♦ ♦

 

 

> _Do you think it's possible to have a hand fetish? Because I think I'm developing one. The other day, in artshop, I couldn't stop staring at your hands as you were painting that jewelry box. The same is true when you read. You come across as such a forceful person, but you're endearingly gentle with the things you care about, be it books or woodwork or best friends._
> 
> _If you ever find out who I am, and give me a chance, I think I'll be able to gauge your feelings for me by your treatment of me under your hands._

 

♦ ♦ ♦  


Helga admits defeat on a Sunday evening. She's at home, sprawled across her bed as she listens to the rain pelt against her window. The house is blissfully quiet, her parents gone for the weekend to visit her only surviving grandparent. In her hands is the note she found Friday morning, blue ink on a familiar cream-colored post-it, and Helga knows she's lost when she re-reads the words for the nth time and feels her heart swell three sizes too big for her chest.

 

> _It's been almost a week since I've last heard your voice._
> 
> _I think my ears are pining._
> 
> _(My heart definitely is.)_

 

Helga wants to know who the writer is. No, she _needs_ to. She cannot stand not knowing, not being able to put a proper face to the person leaving her what she grudgingly admits to being some of the most romantic lines she's ever read. It makes her feel guilty, imagining that it's Arnold writing these things to her when in all likelihood it probably, no, _definitely_ isn't. She can't imagine what this guy would feel like if he were to ever find out she's been fantasizing about him being someone else this whole time.

She's already gotten past the stage of considering this a prank. It can't be. The notes are too honest, too self-deprecating, too candid to be anything but genuine.

There's a part of her that still doesn't want to know. That wants to ignore everything so she won't have to deal with the fallout of eventually finding out who it is and having to respond. Doesn't want to look the person who has poured their heart out to her in the eye and apologize because she _can't_ _do this_. Helga knows herself; she's not anything like the person the writer describes. She can't give them what they want, can't open herself up to them the way they need, doesn't even know _how_.

She needs to end this.

Her fingers trail over the neat script once more before she resolutely places the note into the box with all the others and snaps it shut. She turns onto her stomach and reaches out to open the first compartment of her bedside drawer and lowers the box into it.

 _I'm going to miss this,_ she thinks, thoughts flickering to all the moments she's opened her locker and found a note inside, and how giddy they've made her, how better some days were for them. She allows herself a brief moment of mourning and then she's clamping tight on her sentimentality and steeling her resolve.

Helga grabs her phone from the corner of the bed and calls Phoebe.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ♥


	4. The Sound of Breaking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major thanks to [Chellythemadhatter](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/2065167/) for the beta! ♥

 

The plan is simple: Helga will get to school at an ungodly hour, hide somewhere with a good view of her locker, and then wait for her writer to make his appearance.

It's so simple, so of course everything goes wrong.

He never comes.

At lunch Phoebe tells her not to worry about it but it does little to soothe her foul mood. She spent over an _hour_ holed up in that cramped, stinky locker opposite to hers, and all for nothing. Worse, she didn't even get what was likely to be her last note.

 _You're being ridiculous,_ she tells herself as the bell rings and she heads for her locker to retrieve the textbook for her next class. _Not to mention greedy. You chose this course of action, Helga. It's all or nothing._

She's distracted as she unlocks her locker and pulls it open, which is why it takes her so long to realize there's something there that shouldn't be. Helga stares at the folded piece of loose leaf that's laying innocently atop her textbook, eyes blinking rapidly as if trying to dispel an illusion. A moment of hesitation, and then she's slipping the note between the pages of her textbook and walking away with both.

She goes to the courtyard knowing it will be empty. It's the chilliest it's been since term started, a fact she becomes uncomfortably aware of when a sudden cold wind sweeps past just as she's lowering herself to the ground. She briefly considers going back for her sweater but nixes the idea. The call of the note is strong, an insistent niggling at the edges of her awareness she can no longer ignore. So paying the brush of cold against her skin little heed, she retrieves the note and unfolds it. Takes a fortifying breath, then starts to read. 

 

 

> _I saw you on my way to your locker this morning and I panicked and left. At first I didn't understand why you were there, but then I realized it. You were waiting for me. I knew you'd grow impatient and would want to find out who I was eventually, but I thought I'd have a little longer to keep writing to you. It's okay, though. It's been two months now, hasn't it? I'm lucky I had even this long._
> 
> _A part of me wants to never let you find out who I am because if you don't know nothing has to change, but a much larger part_ needs _to know how everything is going to turn out. Even if nothing goes the way I want it to, I'll at least have some form of closure for this crush I've been harboring for almost four years now._
> 
> _Sorry about the sloppy handwriting. That always happens when I'm nervous, and it's even worse since I try not to write as I normally do. It just hit me, though, that you_ know everything. _I felt so brave when I was writing my feelings on paper because you didn't know who I was. But now that you will, all I can think about is how cheesy and personal and bold some of the things I wrote you was and I sort of wish I'd restrained myself a little. Too late now, though. I guess it's for the best._
> 
> _Anyway…if you still want to know who I am, meet me on the roof after school. I'll be waiting._
> 
> _P.S. - I ended up ruining the note I originally meant to give you…and I guess, since this might be the last time I get to say anything like this again…you look really pretty today, Helga. But then I always think you look pretty._

 

♦ ♦ ♦

 

Helga is a mess for the remainder of the day. Whatever intentions she had of hiding the situation from Phoebe vanish the moment her friend glimpses at her. Helga doesn't know what she looks like, only that it's enough to make _Phoebe_ of all people abduct her shortly before the start of their 7th period class and usher her into the restroom. It's being occupied by one other girl, but she takes one look at the pair and beats a hasty retreat. Smart girl.

Phoebe leads her to the sink and turns on a faucet, adjusting the water until it's warm. "C'mon, Helga, go wash your face," she gently urges her.

It's a weird quirk of hers. For some reason, Phoebe believes that the act of face washing has a calming effect. Helga can't count the number of times they've been in this exact position—Helga with her head bent over a sink while Phoebe rubs circles into her back. Even after a decade of hearing Phoebe exalt the benefits of face washing, Helga still doesn't put much stock in it; if anything, it's the familiarity of the act and the comforting presence of her friend at her side that causes the tension to drain from her body.

Helga spends a full minute with her head under the faucet. Phoebe is on her the instant she pulls away, using the handkerchief she carries to towel the water from her face. Helga lets her, soothed by the gentle affection of the gesture. She allows herself to be led when Phoebe grabs her hand and guides her to the wall, tugging at her until they're both seated on the floor. It's kind of gross, in all honesty, but Helga pointedly doesn't think about it.

"Alright, _now_ you can tell me what's going on," Phoebe says, splaying the damp handkerchief on her lap to dry.

Helga slumps into her side. "I got a note."

"Oh?"

"Apparently the guy saw me this morning and figured out that I was trying to catch him."

"Oh."

"Yeah." Helga rubs a hand over her face, then grimaces when she remembers where she is. Ew.

"He wants to meet after school," she confides after a beat.

"But that's a good thing!" Phoebe insists, nudging her in the side. "For a moment there I was worried he decided to go into hiding or something. This is great, Helga!" At Helga's silence she adds, "Isn't it? I thought this is what you wanted. Wasn't that the point of you trying to catch him this morning?"

"I _know_." Helga thumps her head against the wall. "And I _do._ Want that, I mean. It's just…"

"You're nervous," Phoebe deduces.

"Try terrified!" The words pour out of her before she can stop them. "I don't know if I can do this, Phoebe!"

"Can't…meet your admirer?" she hazards.

"Yes! There are too many factors I'm not aware of! Too many variables I haven't accounted for! What if—"

A firm hand over her mouth silences her.

"Stop panicking," Phoebe tells her. "Honestly Helga, you're overreacting. No, _shh_ , let me finish. I get why you're so afraid—you're not comfortable being in situations you can't control. The thought of going in blind and not knowing what to expect terrifies you. I think most people in your shoes would feel the same. But that's not the point I'm trying to make. Helga, you—look. Right now you have the opportunity to have all your questions answered. To finally put an end to this mystery. But if you don't meet him, if you let this chance slip you by, you might _never_ know. And I think…I think you'd regret that forever."

Slowly, Phoebe withdraws her hand. With eyes still steady on Helga, she continues, "There's something else I don't think you've considered yet. Have you thought at all about how your writer must be feeling? He's in an equally unpredictable situation, but unlike you, he's already put all his cards on the table. He has so much more to lose than you do, Helga, but he's still willing to take a chance.

"I think you owe it to the _both_ of you to do the same."

The silence that follows Phoebe's proclamation is shattered by the sudden piercing screech of the late bell. It makes them both jump, and in Phoebe's case, glance guiltily at the door. Helga finds herself snorting despite herself.

"Go to class you nerd," she tells her. Phoebe just continues to look conflicted, and Helga can almost hear her asking herself if she'd be a terrible friend for leaving now. "Seriously, Phoebs, I don't mind. Oh my g— _yes_ , I'm sure, now would you please stop looking at me like you're about to abandon a wounded comrade in enemy territory? I'm _fine_. _We're_ fine, okay?"

"If you're sure," she says hesitantly, rising to her feet. Helga catches her handkerchief before it hits the floor and hands it to her.

"Thanks," Phoebe says, folding it and tucking it into her pocket. "Are you coming?"

"Nah," Helga dismisses, slouching against the wall. "Not feeling it. But I can skip without any eyebrows being raised. You, on the other hand…" she trails off. From the look on the other girl's face, she's probably imagining the consequences, too.

Phoebe's the school's darling; Helga wouldn't be surprised if they've _already_ called the cops and filed a missing person's report.

"Alright. See you after school, Helga. Or not," she adds, remembering Helga's _appointment._ She's at the door, one hand twisting the doorknob, when she suddenly turns and levels a penetrating look at her friend. "And _please_ think about what I said, Helga. That's all I ask. If you need me you know where I'll be."

She waits until Helga nods in understanding before she pushes the door open and disappears. It slowly closes behind her, slotting into the frame with a quiet _snick._ Helga counts to twenty just in case Phoebe changes her mind, and then slumps into the wall with a groan. Her smile fades as _everything—_ Phoebe's speech, the letter in her bag, the impending meeting, her own irrepressible fears, and worse, her _desires_ —hits her with suddenness of slow-acting poison.

Helga suddenly wishes she'd confided in her friend more. Wishes she'd told her about that one terrible thought that refuses to leave.

 _It's too late now,_ she thinks, and maybe that's for the best. The less Phoebe knows of the dark wishes of her heart, the less she'll pity her when she realizes that's all they are ever going to be.

Because even wishes have limits and there's no being in existence with the power to grant her hers.

The door suddenly swings open with a creak. A girl she doesn't recognize steps in, faltering when she sees Helga before visibly choosing to ignore the weird girl on the floor in favor of going about her business. Helga lets her, studying a particularly inspired bit of vandalism on the opposite wall. In no time at all the girl is gone and she's left alone.

Helga pulls out her phone and checks the time. Thinks, _eighty-one minutes to go_ and then opens her bag to retrieve the letter. When the bell finally rings, signifying the end of the period, she's read the damn thing so many times she can see the words even when she closes her eyes.

 _Fifty minutes to go_ , she thinks, just as the sounds of students filling the hallways trickle to her ears.

She's in for a long wait.

 

♦ ♦ ♦

 

She catches sight of Phoebe when she's on her way up to the roof some ten minutes after the end of the period. To Helga's disappointment, her friend only flashes her a quick thumbs-up before continuing her trek down the hall with a stack of textbooks in her arms. Whether it's for studying or because she's running an errand for a teacher is up in the air; both are equally viable.

Her attempts to distract herself fail, as does her efforts to prolong the inevitable by walking as slowly as humanly possible. There's only so many stairs to climb and before long, before she's _ready_ , she's facing the metal door that opens into the roof.

Helga doesn't know long she stands there, staring at chipped paint and a faded _Do Not Enter_ sign that someone had gone to the trouble of defacing. She reaches for the knob and then stops. She can't open it. _She can't_. In her chest, her heart is the lit braid of firecracker, ready to explode. And it _will,_ if she opens the door and faces what's on the other side. It will explode and take all she is with it.

She can't do it. She can't, she can't, she can't, and before she realizes it she's taken a step back, her clammy hand falling from the knob. She takes another, then another, and starts to turn, wild eyes seeking out the exit route, when suddenly Phoebe's voice cuts through the fog in her head, so clear it's as if she's right _there_ , speaking directly in her ear _._

Trying to make her see reason.

_'Have you thought at all about what your writer must be feeling, Helga?'_

Trying to make her consider someone other than herself.

_'He has so much more to lose than you do.'_

The memory of those words is as sobering as a face full of ice water, and Helga goes still, eyes falling shut in guilt as she realizes she hasn't been. Not once has she considered what her writer must be feeling, and maybe she should have, because if Helga feels like _this—_ shaky and overwhelmed and so, so afraid—he must be feeling a hundred times worse.

Helga finds herself wondering. Did her writer go out onto the roof without hesitation? Did he linger, like she is, in front of the door until he could muster enough courage to step through? Is he there now, waiting on the opposite side with his eyes trained on the door, worried that she wouldn't show? Worried that she would?

The thought makes something sour work its way up her throat. She tries to swallow it down but it won't budge. She takes a deep, stabilizing breath, and focuses on that for a while, until she no longer feels like she's on the verge of hyperventilating.

_'If you let this chance slip you by, you might never know._

_'I think you'd regret that forever.'_

A slow inhale, a slower exhale, and then she's opening her eyes and spinning around. Helga steels her resolve until she can almost feel it solidify into something tangible inside of her. She doesn't allow herself to waver as she closes the distance between herself and the door.

She's wavered enough.

Her hand trembles as she reaches for the knob, but when she wraps her fingers around it her grip is strong. _Good,_ she thinks, taking a deep breath. This is more like her. For a moment she'd forgotten herself; allowed her fears and insecurities to make her weak _._

Helga is many things, but _weak_ has never been one of them.

The door groans as it's pushed open. Cold air rushes into the entrance, causing Helga's eyes to water. She hoists her bag further up her shoulder and pushes at the door until there's just enough room to slip through. Once inside she uses her back to press it shut, and it yields with far less reluctance.

Helga leans against the door just long enough to settle the nerves that are sparking beneath her skin and rein in the frenzied tempo of her heart, and then she's stepping away and looking around.

At first she sees nothing and wonders if he'd left. That, or hadn't come at all. She barely has time to feel relieved, or disappointed, or one of the many other emotions twisting in her belly, when she catches sight of a dark silhouette at the corner of her eye.

There's someone standing just behind the entrance, concealed by the building's shadow. Which is _suspicious as hell,_ and Helga has seen enough horror movies to know that she should turn back and go somewhere that's isn't a roof five stories high with only a shady character as company, and yet she still finds herself calling out, "Hello?"

Silence.

Helga is properly unsettled now. She's considering making a break for the stairs when she hears it: a soft sigh. She watches as the person shifts, visibly hesitating, then slowly makes their way out of the shadows, revealing themselves inch by inch as they step further into the muted sunlight.

And Helga's heart, once the rapid beating of a humming bird's wings, goes deathly still as familiar features begin to emerge.

Jagged corn-yellow hair. A red plaid-patterned shirt. Broad shoulders tapering into a narrow waist. Brown eyes. Thin lips stretched into a small, uncertain smile.

For a moment Helga thinks she's dreaming. Thinks that perhaps she fell asleep in the bathroom and no one had the nerve to wake her. But the bite of the wind against her skin is real. The way her heart is seizing is real. The way Arnold says her name, something her dreams can never quite get right, is very, very real.

"I—I was starting to think you weren't coming. You're _really_ late. Maybe I should have been more specific when I mentioned a time, huh?" He laughs, and it's a shaky thing, barely strong enough to carry in the air.

"Arnold?" is all Helga can manage.

This doesn't make sense. Arnold being here doesn't make sense. Arnold referencing letters that he absolutely should not know about doesn't make sense.

Helga came up here to look for answers, but she's only finding more questions instead.

"Yeah." There's that laugh again, accompanied by a slow neck rub. He's nervous. "I just…look, I know it's unexpected, and that you're probably confused. I haven't exactly given you any reason to, uh, well, expect this. Expect _me._ But…yeah." He swallows and glances away from Helga in a visible effort to collect himself.

"I…I had this whole speech planned, believe it or not, but now that you're here I can't remember a single word of it. But I guess…that's not really important, as long as the important parts get said." For a brief moment Arnold closes his eyes and breathes in as if he's gathering courage from someplace deep inside of himself. His eyes remain closed as he says, "Helga…I like you. A lot. And have for a really long time. I know it's totally out of the blue, because it's not as if you and I are close or anything, but…I do."

He opens his eyes and meets her gaze. Shuffles his feet. When she continues not to say anything he stuffs his hands in his pockets, then removes them. Licks his lips, twice.

"Well?" he finally casts out. "Aren't you going to say anything?"

A gust of wind sweeps past, carrying with it broken leaf fragments. Helga thinks it might be cold but she can't really tell through the numbness taking over. The collar of Arnold's shirt, poking out of an open jacket, is fluttering wildly and—

_I like you. A lot._

—and suddenly a memory is remerging from the deepest, darkest cavern of her mind: the dwelling place for all the memories that were too painful to forget; the abandoned dreams she could not fully bury; the dark thoughts that lived on as revenants.

It plays itself in front of her eyes like blurry-edged slides from a magic lantern, and for a single, torturous instant, the Helga and Arnold of now are gone, replaced by their younger counterparts.

One who was pouring out her heart and soul.

The other who couldn't even be bothered to listen.

Something inside of Helga reaches its limit. Snaps. The numbness fades as if it had never been, and in its place is a _fury_ that she has not felt in years. It starts from the pit of her belly and catches, spreading so quickly, so violently, that before long she can almost _see_ the red of the flames licking at the edges of her vision.

Helga doesn't realize she's moving until her hands are fisting Arnold's shirt and she's slamming him against the side of the building. He grunts, but Helga can barely hear it over the sound of rage in her ears, the sinister pulse of her heart, the whisper of black thoughts in her mind.

Arnold's eyes have always been hard to define, synchronizing with his temper like some rare monochromatic mood ring. They're honey when he's pleased, coffee when he's angry, sunlit tree bark when he's amused and trying to hide it. Right now they're wet sand, and she doesn't know how to categorize them. Any other time she would have been distracted by them—by one more unknown facet of Arnold that needs figuring out—but now…now it's all she can do not to hurt him, to make those eyes she both loves and hates shutter with pain.

Hurt him for hurting her.

"Hel—"

"I don't know what you're exact aim is, Arnold—" she hisses, her face scant inches from his, "—but I can guess. You thought it would be hilarious, didn't you? Writing me all those stupid notes, watching me get all wound up about them, pretending not to know a _thing_ , and for what? To get us to this point and _then_ _what_ , Arnold? What did you actually think was going to happen?"

She tightens her hold on him and shoves him further against the wall, her own body bent over his, coiled tight like a snake poised to strike. "Did you think," she enunciates slowly, forcing her mouth to curve in a mocking smile, "that I would be _hurt_? Heartbroken, even? Maybe even that I'd _cry_?

"Well, you thought wrong, Arnold," she exhales over a heavy swallow. It's becoming strangely difficult to speak. "Sorry to disappoint you, but I don't care. I _never_ cared." Lie. "Most of your stupid notes went in the trash before I even read them." Lie. "The rest I shared with Phoebe so we'd have ourselves a good laugh." Lie. "And the _only_ reason I staked out my locker this morning was because I wanted you to stop—" Lie. "—but apparently you're too thick to get the memo, so I figured I'd come up here and settle things for good." Lie, lie, _lie_.

"So here it is. It was a good prank, I'll give you that, but you _failed._ Because not once did I fall for it, and I sure as hell don't care. So before my patience wears any thinner and I decide the world would be better off if you were nothing more than a smear on the pavement, _kindly fuck off._ "

With that, Helga releases him and takes a step back, and then another, until there's nearly a yard of distance between them. She'd have preferred more, but her knees feel oddly shaky and her breaths are coming out in these sharp, quick gasps that make it difficult to breathe. Never one for long bouts of speech, she supposes it's to be expected.

Helga stares at Arnold, waits for him to bolt, but he doesn't.

He simply stands there, small and rumpled with his back against the building, staring back.

And Helga's anger spikes another notch. She opens her mouth—to say what, though, she isn't sure—when Arnold finally speaks.

"It's not a prank, Helga. It never was."

Something ugly twists in her chest. Reflects on her face.

"And I'm supposed to believe that, huh?" She spits, hands clenching into fists at her sides.

Arnold's face is like stone, and the only source of life to be found are his eyes, which are that same wet sand color she still can't interpret. Isn't sure she even wants to.

He's studying her, that much is clear, and Helga can't help but wonder what he's seeing. Is it the impenetrable armor that everyone else sees, or has he glimpsed past that, to the brittle fault lines that run underneath?

"You know me, Helga," he says with a calmness that Helga envies. "We may not be as close as we used to be but you _know_ me. You know the type of person I am. So do you honestly believe, with all your heart, that I'm the type of person who would willingly mislead someone with the intention of hurting them?"

 _No_. The word rings through Helga's head, echoes in the caverns there. Resonates in her heart. As mortifying as it is to admit, she has spent more time watching Arnold than anyone. Has studied him as if he were a favorite subject, with all the old notes and charts to prove it.

There's truth in what Arnold is saying, a huge part of her knows this, but still she shakes her head, refusing to acknowledge it. Maybe once upon a time she could've claimed to know Arnold better than anyone, but that's no longer true. Helga has spent _years_ distancing herself from him in any way she can—has treated him like a tree planted and then avoided. And maybe once she could've sketched the grooves on the trunk from memory, could've remembered how many flowers its branches held, but she left, and the tree grew without her, and now she no longer knows.

Helga ignores the voice in her head that insists a lemon tree will always be a lemon tree regardless how much time passes.

That the core of Arnold, that which made him _him_ , cannot have changed in the span of a few meager years.

 _Except that it has,_ Helga thinks obstinately, because Arnold is _here,_ either as the culprit of a cruel prank, or even less believably, Helga's secret admirer _._ Both are equally at odds with what she knows of him, which indicates that in the past few years something _has_ changed.

Somehow it's easier to believe that Arnold has become the kind of person who'd pull such a prank than to believe he's harbored a crush on her for years.

Before Helga can think to argue, Arnold—apparently tired of just standing there—sighs and takes a step forward.

Without thinking Helga takes one back, and immediately hates herself for it.

"You know I would never do such a thing, Helga. I _know_ you do. And I think…I think that scares you. That you'd rather I _would_ , because the alternative would mean that you're wrong about this being a prank. That it's _real_."

He takes another step forward.

Swallowing, Helga takes another one back.

"And it is. All of it," he says, gaze as steady as his voice. "My letters, my confession…my feelings for you."

"Stop it," Helga demands, her heart pounding.

Arnold's face cracks, and his lips pull into the smallest of smiles. It's the first hint of expression she's seen from him in a while.

"I meant every word, you know. I do love your smile, though it's rarely aimed my way. And I love your eyes, could spend a lifetime lost in them. And sometimes, when I catch you in a certain light, you really do steal my breath away."

"Stop it," Helga repeats with a fierceness she doesn't feel. "Stop lying."

Arnold takes another step forward, but Helga's legs are trembling too badly to continue their dance.

"You drive me crazy," he continues. "Seriously, I don't think I've ever met anyone as frustrating and complex and _obstinate_ as you. Sometimes I think I'm _crazy_ for falling for someone like you, but mostly I just I think you balance me out _perfectly_."

"Shut up, shup, shut up!" Helga hisses, but she's ignored. Arnold's next step forward lands him directly in front of her. There's barely a foot between them now, and they're so close Helga can see the faint brush of freckles on his skin, the flickers of gold in his eyes, the dryness of his mouth. Can smell something bittersweet emanating from his breath, and the faint trace of his cologne. Can feel the heat of him against her front, reminding her that he'd always run a little warmer than most people, something that she—as someone who's often cold—has always thrilled in.

All things that she was too furious to notice before, and can't seem to _un-notice_ now.

"You're bad-tempered and forceful and a bit of a bully, but I like you anyway."

"I just slammed you into a wall," Helga says desperately when Arnold continues to inch forward, that unsettling gaze of his never wavering. "I threatened to throw you off the roof!"

"You've done worse in the past," Arnold dismisses easily, "and I know you would never _really_ throw me off a roof. Besides, didn't you hear what I said? You're bad-tempered and forceful and a bit of a bully, but I like you anyway."

"You're crazy," Helga says hoarsely, feeling like her feet has been turned to stone when Arnold raises a hand and slowly, so slowly, reaches out to brush a flyaway curl behind her ear.

"Probably," he admits, smile soft. "But then, you're kind of crazy, too."

Helga can't breathe, and no amount of gasping for air helps. Arnold's hand on her face is warm, so warm it _burns_ , and she can't decide if she wants to smack it away or lean into it.

Perhaps it's a good thing she's become a statue, after all.

"You—you're just confused," she insists. She doesn't know what's she's saying anymore. "You don't like me. You _can't_ like me."

He regards her intently. "Why not?"

"Because you're Arnold and I'm Helga and that—that's just how it is!" She tries to make him see reason.

She receives a snort for her efforts, and glares viciously at him for it.

"Sorry, sorry," he placates. "But that's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. It doesn't even make sense. What does me being Arnold and you being Helga have to do with anything?"

Helga opens her mouth, but the sudden press of fingers against her lips silences her. Scowling, she does what she should have done ages ago and slaps the hand away.

Arnold is unperturbed. "Y'know what? Never mind. I'm sorry I asked. Look, none of that matters, Helga. The only thing that does is that I like you. I _really_ like you." With those words, his confidence wavers, cracks. Helga can see him clinging to as many pieces of it as he can hold. "And…and whether or not you still feel the same."

Helga freezes.

Arnold looks nervous now.

"I know you used to like me when we were kids. Do you remember that day on the roof? When you confessed to me? Well…I lied, when I pretended not to hear you," he admits, finally taking a step back and lowering his gaze to the ground. "I did hear you. But I was shocked, Helga. I didn't know what to say or how to react. So…so I lied."

At those words, Helga feels herself go cold. She wraps her arms round herself in a futile attempt to fend off a chill that's forming from within.

"I wanted to bring it up again after things settled down," he says, raising his gaze again. His eyes are as honest as she's ever seen them. "But I didn't know how. And the longer I put it off the harder it was to tell you, so eventually I just stopped trying, justifying it to myself that I didn't know how I would have responded anyway.

"After that," Arnold continues, raking a hand through his hair, "I tried to put it behind me, but…I couldn't. You were just always _there._ Not that you weren't always there _before_ , but I guess I started noticing you more. I watched you a lot, too. At first I was just trying to work out how you could _possibly_ like me when you treated me like, well, garbage. But I slowly started realizing that wasn't true. I mean yeah, you teased me a lot and whatever, but you also helped me a lot, too, and were kind to me in your own way."

Arnold ducks his head, and the part of Helga's brain that hasn't completely short-circuited notices that he's actually _blushing._

"I didn't start liking you back immediately or anything. It took years. And by the time I realized it…well, I was already dating Lila. And when _that_ relationship ended…I don't know. By that point you and I were practically strangers. I figured I'd missed my chance."

He peeks up at her. "Lila was the one who convinced me to do something about it, honestly. Apparently she grew tired of watching me pine." Arnold tries to smile, but it's a feeble thing, short-lived. "I wasn't brave enough to tell you in person, though…so I wrote you that first note. And it, well, it escalated from there."

Arnold clears his throat as he straightens. Looks at Helga expectantly, as if waiting for her to say something, say _anything_ , but she can't. For the first time in her life it feels as if there are no words left inside of her; they've disintegrated in her shock.

"C'mon, Helga, give me something here," he pleads, shifting from foot to foot. "I can't read you."

Helga can't muster up enough emotion to do anything but stare.

When Helga was a little girl there were few things she yearned for more than Arnold's affections. She used to daydream about having it, had even written scripts until she realized the danger in having physical evidence of her obsession and decided that her fantasies were best left confined to her head.

If her younger counterpart were here, no doubt she'd been crying from sheer happiness. Because even though Helga's family is still a dysfunctional wreck, and she hasn't become the graceful woman she once hoped to be, at least one dream had come true: Arnold, the boy she'd so desperately fallen in love with, _reciprocated her feelings._

It's everything Helga's ever wanted, and yet.

And yet now that it's within her grasp, it _frightens_ her.

 _I can't,_ she thinks as she begins to back away. From Arnold, and what he's asking of her, and what he's offering. From the metaphorical door that's materializing before her, tall and daunting, its destination unknown. From the girl she used to be, making wishes that were never meant to come true. From herself.

_It's too much. I can't._

Her eyes do not leave Arnold's as she withdraws, and so she sees the way his expression turns stunned, then shutters. Sees the light in his eyes dim as realization, then resignation, sets in. Sees his mouth twist as if he wants to say something but can't find the words. Or perhaps he just realizes that they won't be welcome.

The last thing Helga sees is his lips form a wry smile, and then she's spinning on her heel and sprinting towards the very door that, just minutes ago, she tried running _from._

The door to the roof entrance closes behind her with a resounding groan.

It's almost enough to drown out the sound of her heart breaking.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've probably noticed that this fic doesn't follow certain events of the Hey Arnold! movie very closely (in this universe Helga confessed, but Arnold pretended not to hear and there was no kissing involved whatsoever). This fic also completely ignores the existence of _The Jungle Movie_. I hope that clears things up for you!
> 
> Thanks so much for the awesome feedback, everyone!


	5. The Final Note

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major thanks to [chellythemadhatter](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/2065167/chellythemadhatter) for the beta!

 

The trek to Phoebe's apartment passes in a blur. By the time Helga reaches the Heyerdahl's building, the cold of the evening has sunk into her skin and she's shivering so badly her fingers spasm over the wall plate. She swears as she ends up pressing the neighbor's bell button instead.

Helga doesn't wilt with relief when the intercom crackles to life and a familiar voice floats through the speaker, but it's a near thing.

"It's me, Phoebe."

"Oh," is the only response she gets before the speaker releases a shrill _beep,_ and then she's pushing the door open just as the intercom blares to life again and an unfamiliar voice asks, "Hello?" The door closes before she can make out whatever else is being said, and then she's bypassing the elevator for the stairwell and taking the stairs two at a time until she reaches the second landing.

The Heyerdahl's door is at the very end of the hall, and Phoebe is waiting for her in front of it, school clothes gone in favor of nightwear and hair loose like it only ever is when she's at home. Her expression is unreadable as she ushers Helga inside, and Helga chooses to focus on toeing off her boots and kicking them against the wall instead of trying to decipher it.

In no time at all she's in Phoebe's room, stripped of her flimsy sweater and bundled into a robe. The material is plush and warm, yet Helga still feels cold.

She's settling onto Phoebe's bed when it suddenly dawns on her that maybe it's not the cold that's making her shiver but something else. Something she's not quite ready, or willing, to think about. Fortunately, Phoebe chooses that moment to enter the room. The bedsprings creak beneath their combined weight as Phoebe crawls towards Helga then positions herself so that she's directly in front of her, front to front. With some maneuvering her legs come around Helga's hips, followed by arms around her back, and then Helga's being hugged.

It's an achingly familiar position, and all the more comforting for it. Tension Helga doesn't realize she's carrying bleeds out of her as Phoebe's hands rub circles into her back. Within moments she's gone utterly boneless, chin on Phoebe's shoulder and hands loosely bunched in her nightdress. She finds it easier to breathe now that there's another's to match, and for a long while that's all she does—just breathes, the familiar scent of rosemary and ink and _Phoebe_ heady in her nose.

It's Phoebe who breaks the silence first. Of course it is. Left up to Helga, they'd remain silent forever.

"Are you ready to talk it about it now?"

"No," Helga exhales, releasing her grip on Phoebe's gown to embrace her tightly instead. And then, before she can stop herself, says, "It was Arnold."

Seconds that don't feel like seconds at all tick by before Phoebe finally sighs and says, "Yes, I thought it would be."

Helga rears back, unsure if she heard her correctly. "What?"

"Anyone with eyes can see how gone that boy is on you, Helga," her friend says simply, as if they're discussing a well-known fact of the universe and not the groundbreaking discovery it actually is. "And before you ask, I only just figured it out myself. I've had my suspicions for a short while, of course, but I didn't want to say anything until I was absolutely certain because…"

 _Because I didn't want to get your hopes up,_ Helga silently finishes for her. Which answers the question of whether or not Phoebe knows how Helga feels. As mortifying as it is, at least she doesn't have to admit it out loud.

Helga shuts her eyes and releases a breath, thankful that their current position dissuades either of them from looking at the other.

"What made you…?" She stops, unable to get the words out.

"Come to the conclusion that he likes you?" Phoebe doesn't wait for a response. "He stares at you a lot, you know. It's amazing how I never noticed before. But once I caught on, I started catching him _all the time_.

"Plus, the _way_ he looks at you. I can't even put it into words. You remember the day I found you two talking in the library? Well, when you left…I swear Helga, I thought he was going to chase after you. For a long time afterward he kept glancing at the doors as if he were hoping you'd come back. It was…pretty obvious."

 _Obvious?_ To Phoebe, maybe. Helga _never_ would've been able to come to such a conclusion on her own regardless what evidence laid before her. Even now, having heard the truth from the source itself, she struggles to accept this new reality where Arnold loved Helga outside the realm of her dreams.

"Will you tell me what happened, Helga?" Phoebe asks.

A refusal forms on the tip of Helga's tongue, but she swallows it down. Releases a deep, shuddering breath, then lets everything that's happened spill out of her instead.

She's shaking by the time she finishes. Feels exhausted, too, though she's self-aware enough to realize it's the good kind, not unlike the fatigue that sets in after a long, cathartic run.

Phoebe's hands have stopped their massage and now rest firmly against the expanse of her lower spine—anchoring instead of soothing.

"Oh, Helga," she sighs. "You never make things easy for yourself, do you?"

Helga wants to laugh at that, because ain't that the truth.

"I don't get it," Phoebe confesses, shaking her head. "You like him. I _know_ you do. So why did you run?"

Helga bites back a denial at having run from anything, because she had, hadn't she?

"Because," she grits out.

"Because?"

"I don't know, Phoebe! Okay? I don't know!"

"Liar," Phoebe shoots back. "You _know_ why, Helga. Stop lying to me, and more importantly, stop lying to yourself."

A growl erupts from the back of her throat as she flings herself onto her back, away from Phoebe, and stares balefully up at the ceiling. Dozens of reasons and excuses and justifications whir through her head, all of them clamoring for precedence, and yet what comes out when she finally opens her mouth is, "Nothing good ever comes from loving Arnold!"

"What—?"

Helga sits up and glares at Phoebe. Beneath her fists, the sheets crumple. "You don't understand, Phoebe! It's not as simple as you're making it out to be! You have no idea what kind of person I become when I'm with him! What he always, _always_ manages to bring out of me!"

The words spill from her faster than she can stop them. She's barely aware of them forming in her head. All her fears, her insecurities, her self-hatred, _everything_ —it pours out of her like whatever dam has been barricading them has broken, combining with remnant splinters that scrape against her insides as they're being expunged.

It hurts, but Helga can't stop.

"I get _obsessed,_ Phoebe," she says, desperate for her friend to understand. " _Addicted._ He used to occupy my thoughts _all the time_. One word from him had the power to establish the outcome of my day. I—he made me _crazy,_ Phoebe. Completely out of control. And worst of all, he didn't even _know_ it!

"And now—now that I've _finally_ managed to redefine myself as someone other than the girl who was hopelessly in love with him, after I managed to pick up all those pieces I lost to him over the years, after I managed to move on, _now_ he notices me? _Really_?"

She laughs, and it's a bitter sound, brittle at the edges. "I won't let myself become that girl again, Phoebe. I won't. I've worked too fucking hard to backslide _now._ "

The silence that follows her outburst is a tangible thing. When Phoebe speaks again, her voice barely a hush, she doesn't so much break it as add another layer to it.

"But you haven't, Helga," she says gently, eyes calm behind her glasses as she mirrors Helga's cross-legged position. "You haven't moved on at all."

Phoebe's words strike a chord of truth in her that _hurts_.

"And Helga, what you just described…well, that just sounds like being in love to me."

 _That_ pulls a derisive snort from her, but Phoebe is shaking her head before Helga can argue.

"No, it _does._ Everything you just said—how you always thought about him, and felt vulnerable around him, and felt like you were losing parts of yourself to him—Helga, that's _normal._ You're _supposed_ to feel that way when you love someone."

Helga hopes her expression conveys just how disbelieving she is. "Phoebs, I built him a _shrine._ " Several, actually, but like hell is going to reveal that tidbit. Admitting the one is humiliating enough.

Phoebe merely quirks a brow at her. "Well, do you have an urge to build one _now_?"

"Of course not!" Helga snaps, affronted.

"Then there you go," Phoebe says, pleased, as if she's just proven her point. "You were just a kid, Helga. An eccentric kid, maybe, but still just a kid. Clearly you've grown up, since you acknowledge that building a shrine for the one you like isn't exactly the behavior of a well-adjusted person."

Wow. It sounds even worse when someone else says it. Groaning with embarrassment, Helga buries her face in her hands in a futile attempt to hide the blush that's taken over. She's barely given five seconds of reprieve when Phoebe gently extracts her hands, cleverly entwining their fingers so Helga can't hide from her again.

"You're not the first person who's done crazy things because of love," Phoebe continues, voice as soft as her gaze. "Or the first to feel like you've been altered by it. That's what happens when you fall for someone. That's what makes it _scary._ Losing pieces of yourself, giving more than you're getting back, leaving yourself vulnerable and exposed…it's part of the process. But people do it, over and over, because it's worth it."

Phoebe's hands tighten over hers. "I think you were right about the reason you ran, though it's not for the reasons you're telling yourself. You're scared—no, please listen to me, Helga. You're _scared_ , because you hate not being in control, and it's _impossible_ to be when you love someone. And for someone like you, who feels so _strongly_ about things and copes by bottling everything up…well, it makes sense that you ran. Because love isn't something you _can_ bottle. So you got scared, and when fighting was no longer a viable option, you chose flight.

"I think what you really need to decide is whether or not Arnold is the type of person you'll regret opening yourself up to. That's what it all comes down to, Helga: whether or not you trust him, and whether or not you think he's worth it."

Another squeeze of her hand, followed by a reassuring kiss against her forehead, and then Phoebe's pulling away, murmuring her intent to make tea as she climbs off the bed and pads out of the room, quietly shutting the door behind her.

She's giving Helga time to think, and to organize her thoughts, and to unravel the knot of emotions twisting inside of her. Time, and privacy, too, because somewhere along the line she started crying without realizing it, and best friend or not, Helga doesn't need an audience to watch her fall apart.

A few minutes is all that she allows of herself, and then she's furiously scrubbing at her face and taking deep, controlled breaths. When her eyes no longer feel like broken faucets, when she can open them and the room doesn't blur around the edges, she sniffs, eases onto her side, and clutches one of Phoebe's overlarge pillows to her chest.

As disinclined as she is to acknowledge it, Helga can't deny the truth in Phoebe's words. She turns them over in her mind, desperately searches for weak points, but Phoebe's observations are as faultless as ever and she finds none. And doesn't it smart to realize she doesn't know herself as well as she thought. Though maybe that's for the best, considering how little of what she's learned of herself these past few weeks she actually likes.

Burrowing her face in the pillow, Helga thinks. Thinks and thinks and thinks. Thinks until her brain feels like it's unraveling at the edges and yet it's still not enough to so much as _dent_ the block in her head.

 _Probably_ , she thinks glumly, _because I'm not thinking about the things I should be._

 _Arnold_. Somehow things always come back to him, don't they? Helga rolls onto her back, dragging the pillow with her, and exhales heavily enough to send her bangs flying. Just thinking his name makes her heartbeat go haywire. Makes her feel like she's standing directly under the sun. She still remembers the heat of his body so close to hers. The way her skin had tingled under his touch. The bittersweet scent of his breath as it ghosted her face. As vulnerable as she had felt, not unlike a raw nerve ending exposed to the air, there's still a part of her that had _relished_ the feeling of being so close to him.

His confession—everything she's ever dreamed of and so much more for the realness of it _—_ has carved itself a space at the center of her heart, secured itself a home in her vessels and valves. And Helga _knows_ that nothing she does will ever force it out. Even cutting out her own heart will not remove the imprint of his words in her chest, the echo of them in her ears, the memory of them in her mind.

There it will always be, tucked beside her own persevering love, even when years have passed and they no longer hold true for the one who'd spoken them.

The thought sends a jolt of pain through her, and she squeezes her eyes shut, riding it out.

That one day Arnold will no longer feel for her the way he does now—that he, unlike her, could freely cast aside his feelings and move on—is nigh unbearable. More so than if he'd never liked her at all. Because now Helga has a taste of what it's like to be the one Arnold thinks about, the one he chases after, the one he _likes_.

Just a small, brief taste, but it's enough to spark a craving that she knows will never be sated.

The thought disturbs her the moment it comes, and she sits up, body and mind too restless to remain laying down.

What does she _want_?

The answer comes with a swiftness she wishes she can be surprised by.

Arnold. She wants Arnold. She's _always_ wanted Arnold. Always _will_ want Arnold.

And at least for the time being Arnold wants her back _._

' _What you really need to decide is whether or not Arnold is the type of person you'll regret opening yourself up to,'_ Phoebe had said.

' _Do you trust him?'_

 _Yes_ , Helga thinks after some hesitation. It's _herself_ she doesn't trust.

' _Do you think he's worth it?'_

Helga smiles wryly up the ceiling as the tightness in her chest slowly begins to ease.

Yes, she rather thinks might be.

 

♦ ♦ ♦

 

Helga finds Phoebe in the kitchen. She's sitting at the island, a textbook spread out before her as she cradles a steaming cup of what's likely to be tea in her hands. Helga, hovering at the doorframe uncertainly, must make some type of noise because Phoebe immediately looks up.

"I don't know what to say to him," Helga blurts the instant their eyes meet. "Not after…you know. What do I _do_?"

"Why not take a leaf out of Arnold's book?" Phoebe suggests, scrutinizing Helga over the rim of her glasses. After a moment she carefully sets her cup down onto a saucer and snaps the textbook shut.

Helga blinks in confusion, not quite understanding what Phoebe means by that. After a moment it _clicks_ , and she leans against the doorframe, mind working.

"Do you think that will work?"

Phoebe shrugs. "Why not? It worked for him, didn't it?"

 _Yeah,_ Helga thinks, something resembling hope swelling inside of her. _Yeah, it did._

 

♦ ♦ ♦

 

It takes her all night. Over and over she rewrites the message, using various types of paper to accommodate its varying lengths. The first one is too long, the second too short. The third is too personal, the fourth not personal enough. The dry humor she attempts in the fifth comes out flat, while the sixth is so solemn it would benefit from even the tackiest joke. She uses loose-leaf, and post-its, and stationary. Uses pencils and a wide spectrum of colored pens.

By the time the sun rises over the horizon, Helga's hands are stained with ink and marred with paper cuts, and the bags under her eyes are a vivid blue. She slides an entire night's worth of effort into a plain envelope and carefully tucks it between the pages of whatever book lies in her bag.

There's no time to shower so she makes quick work of getting dressed, brushing her teeth, and gathering her things. The sky is a dreamy fusion of coral and fuchsia as she quietly slips out of the house and onto the wakening street, making her way towards the school.

The halls are empty when she feeds the envelope, stained from the smudges on her fingers, into the slit of Arnold's locker. With a churning stomach she watches as it disappears. Immediately there's an impulse to break open the locker and retrieve it, but she shoves it down as far as it will go and forces herself to walk away, her footfalls almost deafening as she retreats.

It's done. There's no turning back now.

 

♦ ♦ ♦

 

She sits alone at her table in the cafeteria.

Phoebe begs off, claiming some excuse that she likely comes up with on the spot. Helga resists the urge to fetter her to the table and lets her leave, even though her stomach, already twisting itself into knots, churns even more horribly the moment she's gone.

She regrets her decision when a familiar shadow falls over the table an instant later and someone who is definitely not Phoebe sinks into the bench beside her.

"Helga," the person greets in a neutral tone.

"Arnold," Helga returns, just as evenly. She stares intently at the patterns on the tabletop, ignoring the way her heartbeat has sped up, pulse points throbbing with it. She's successful, at least until a familiar stained envelope enters the periphery of her vision and whatever control she has of her physiological responses disappears as if it had never been.

She feels her throat go desert-dry as Arnold clears his, and it takes every ounce of courage she possesses to look at him. A brief, slanted glance is all she can manage, but it's enough to see that Arnold is _smiling_. He doesn't look uncomfortable, or frustrated, or angry, or any of the other things she's been bracing herself for. If anything he looks _happy_ , and it's easier, after that, to turn towards him more fully and meet his gaze.

Eyes like honey look back, and Helga swallows down nerves and trepidation and the lingering echoes of her fear.

"Hi," he says, smiling in a way that melts her insides. She tries to smile back but the muscles of her face refuse to respond.

"So today's Tuesday," Arnold continues, and with a jolt Helga realizes that she's _staring_ at him. She tears her gaze away, refusing to acknowledge the heat rising to her cheeks in case doing so makes it worse.

"Is it? I hadn't noticed," Helga snipes without thinking, inwardly wincing the instant the words escape her mouth.

"I guess I deserve that," Arnold says with a wry smile, and Helga wants to hit her head against the table because that isn't true at all.

So even though everything in her rebels against it, she forces herself to say, "No you didn't. Sorry."

She regrets her decision to play nice when Arnold looks at her like she's grown another head.

"Um," he starts, rubbing the back of his neck. "Wow. Okay. So I guess you really did mean it."

She knows he's referring to her letter now.

"I wouldn't have written what I did unless I meant it," she says tetchily and has to fight the urge to drop her gaze. "So can you please just get to the point?"

"Do you want to go the movies after school?" Arnold rushes out, as if the words have been waiting to be let out this whole time and she's just given them the go-ahead. "The snacks are discounted on Tuesdays and they just released that movie—um, the one with the boxing?"

" _Fighting Star_ ," Helga says automatically.

"Right." Arnold nods, seeming to relax a little at her contribution. "That one. And I'm not sure if you've seen it yet—"

"I haven't."

He relaxes further. "Oh, that's good. Great. Uh, so I was hoping we could watch it together. As a date," he adds, as if it weren't already clear.

Helga, for her part, is doing her utmost to keep the sheer _giddiness_ she feels from showing on her face. This isn't at all how she expected their conversation to go, not that she's complaining or anything. Why would she? She's just been asked on a date by _Arnold._ And no matter what reservations she still carries, what worries she is carefully avoiding thinking about, this is…

There are no words for what this is.

"I guess," she says, aiming for neutral and missing by a mile if the way Arnold is looking at her is anything to go by. She can't bring herself to care—not when Arnold is giving her a look she _never_ imagined would be aimed her way.

"Great. That's great. Okay. So I'll drop by your locker after school?"

"Sure," she says with a shrug.

Arnold's grin widens and yeah, she's definitely not fooling anyone at this table.

"Okay. So. I'll see you later then."

Helga nods, biting the inside of her cheek as a tendril of disappointment unfurls in her chest. Only he doesn't leave like she expects him to—instead, he takes her right hand and flips it over, trailing his fingers over her digits and palm until sparks of heat are shooting up her arm.

"Thank you. For the letter," he elaborates, and only then does Helga realize he's not just tracing random patterns into her hand. He's outlining the shapeless ink stains, mapping the zigzagging paper cuts on her clammy skin.

Her hand jerks in an aborted movement, but her own determination and Arnold's steadfast grip keeps it still. Arnold resumes his ministrations when she makes no further move to pull away, eyes fastened to their entwined hands as if he can't bring himself to look away.

"You have no idea how happy it made me. I thought—well, that doesn't matter now, I guess. The only thing that's important is that you wrote it. So. Thanks. And not just for the letter, but for giving me—giving _us—_ a chance, too."

With that, he squeezes Helga's limp hand once more and pulls away. Helga can only stare, dazed, as he rises in a single fluid motion and walks away, leaving the cafeteria altogether instead of returning to his table. A table, she realizes belatedly, that's full of people who are _staring_ at her. And they aren't the only ones—somehow, without having realized it, the cafeteria had gone quieter than she can ever remember it being, all eyes on her.

Helga flushes, because while she's used to being stared at it's never been for a reason such as _this._ It's awkward as hell, not to mention humiliating, and that's all it takes. Her eyes narrow, and she sweeps an icy look across the room that has most of the gazes averted in an instant. The slam of her hands against the table prompts the rest. Still, there are a few who continue to stare—most of whom are sitting at Arnold's table—but she knows there's nothing she can do about that.

Not if she wants to see where this thing with Arnold will lead, anyway.

Which she has to firmly remind herself that she does when Lila Sawyer catches her gaze across the room and _winks._ Helga bares her teeth at her, but the girl only grins back like she's _amused._

 _He's worth it,_ Helga repeats to herself, dropping her chin into her hand—the same hand Arnold had just caressed not five minutes ago as he thanked her for giving him, giving _them_ , a chance.

"Yeah," she whispers, feeling the corners of her lips creep up into a smile. "He really is."

♦ ♦ ♦

 

 

> _Dear Arnold,_
> 
>  
> 
> _In your sixteenth letter you wrote that you wished_ _I thought you worth the effort of being gentle with._
> 
> _You are._
> 
>  
> 
> _Yours,_
> 
> _Helga._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me 'til the end, folks! ♥
> 
> Comments and constructive criticism are as welcome as always.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm experimenting with present-tense for this fic, something that I'm definitely not used to. It's been...interesting, haha. Anyway, thanks for reading, everyone! Comments are super appreciated, as always!
> 
> Also, I have super exciting news to share. A Helga/Arnold fanwork fest is being held on tumblr! It's called **SHORTAKI WEEK 2016** and I'm going to be participating as both a writer and an artist. All of us are really hoping it takes off, so please spread the word in any way you can! If you're the creative sort, I encourage you to participate as well! The more participants we get the greater the turnout will be! For more information, just google "shortaki week." Thank you!


End file.
